People Who Enjoy Meetings Should Not Be In Charge of Anything
by Aunt Kitty
Summary: Ducky and Sandy (OC): Life at a multi-genre book convention. A weekend of dealers, autograph sessions, murder mystery games (and not-quite-games), a banquet, and just a wee bit of chaos. Complete, 12 chapters. Will post 1-3 per weekend. COMPLETE, FINAL CHAPTER POSTED.
1. Stop Me Before I Volunteer Again!

**People Who Enjoy Meetings Should Not Be In Charge of Anything**

* * *

 **Summary:** Life at a multi-genre book convention. A weekend of dealers, autograph sessions, murder mystery games, a banquet, and just a wee bit of chaos.

 **Note:** Mildly AU.

 **Betas and cheerleaders:** A throwaway comment about my hair stick ("You could kill someone with that, and in this crowd, nobody would probably notice.") started it all. Thank you, Dixie and Lianne! And thank you to Rose for a line that made me laugh out loud and scare the cat. Thank you to Shannon and Dixie for Beta and proofing; any errors are 100% at my doorstep.

 **Genre:** Drama/Minor casefic

 **Pairing:** Ducky/Sandy (OC)

 **Rating/Warnings:** T (mostly for language and references to adult situations including criminal ones (you've seen worse on prime time TV and heard worse on HBO, trust me), plus the odd dead body)

 **Spoilers:** None; however, I had need to borrow Dr. Hampton. Since Identity Crisis, the episode where Ducky meets Dr. Hampton, aired October 2007 and my universe has Ducky and Sandy getting married two months after that… we're just going to teleport Identity Crisis and Broken Bird into the "somewhere before Witch Hunt" (which is about the time Ducky and Sandy met) period. Work with me, people.

 **Time frame:** Spring, 2014 (setup Spring, 2013)

 **Disclaimer:** All NCIS characters are the property of Bellisarius Productions, Paramount, CBS and the appropriate copyright holders within those companies. All other characters for this story (barring real persons mentioned in passing) are my original creation and property.

I recommend that you read TGIF, OHIM, Life Is What Happens, CHAOS! and, if you have the time, My Life. If not, a very short synopsis: Ducky is married to Cassandra Talmage, a bookseller in DC, and they have a daughter, Alexandra (Lexi). Their relationship has included murder, attempted murder, fraud, impersonation of a medical professional and assorted mayhem. (Told you it was short.)

* * *

 **People Who Enjoy Meetings Should Not Be In Charge of Anything  
** (Thomas Sowell)

 **Chapter One**

Opening Gambit: Stop Me Before I Volunteer Again!

May, 2013 – March, 2104

* * *

 _~ ~ ~ ~ ~ LibriCon 2013 ~ ~ ~ ~ ~  
_ _March 7-11, 2013_

 ** _Concom Closing Comments_**

 _The Concom will be holding a post-con meeting (TBA). If you didn't leave comments at registration, please feel free to let us know_ _ **HERE**_ _what we did well, what could be improved, etc._

 ** _COMMENT 1 of 203  
_** _Awesome stuff for the charity auction. Hope you do another murder mystery at the banquet (even though my team lost). Maybe even more than one? See you next year!_

 **IMPORTANT NOTICE! IMPORTANT NOTICE! IMPORTANT NOTICE!  
** **READ THIS  
** **NOW** **!**

 _~ ~ ~ ~ ~ LibriCon 2014 ~ ~ ~ ~ ~  
_ May 15-19, 2014

 **WE'VE MOVED** **!**

AFTER 17 YEARS AT THE REGENCY AMBASSADOR, THEY ARE CLOSING AND CONVERTING TO STUDENT HOUSING. WE ARE MOVING TO THE GORGEOUS MILLENIUM HOTEL! CLICK **HERE** FOR HOTEL DETAILS AND RESERVATION LINK.

IF YOU'VE EATEN AT THE MILLENIUM, YOU KNOW THE BANQUET WILL SELL OUT _FAST_. IF YOU HAVEN'T, YOU ARE IN FOR A TREAT!  
LIMITED SPACE: 180 (15 TABLES, 12 EACH). CLICK **HERE** FOR DETAILS AND REGISTRATION.

DEALERS ROOM — DOUBLE OUR OLD SPACE!  
CONTACT NORMA EDWARDS (CLICK **HERE** ) TO RESERVE SPACE  
(1 full membership with each table)

 **PRE-REGISTRATION  
** THROUGH 10/31/2013: FULL $50/FRIDAY $20/SATURDAY $35/SUNDAY $35/MONDAY $20  
11/1/2013 — 12/31/2013: FULL $60/FRIDAY $25/SATURDAY $40/SUNDAY $40/MONDAY $25  
1/1/2014 — 4/1/2104: FULL $80/ FRIDAY $35/SATURDAY $50/SUNDAY $50/MONDAY $35  
PRE-REGISTRATION CUTOFF 4/1/2014  
REGISTRATION AT THE DOOR  
FULL $100/ FRIDAY $35/SATURDAY $60/SUNDAY $60/MONDAY $35  
DEALERS ROOM ONLY PASSES AVAILABLE **ONLY** AT THE DOOR: $25 (UNLIMITED ACCESS)

GUEST LIST TBA—LOOK AT THE PRIOR YEARS FOR A GENERAL IDEA OF ATTENDEES

PROGRAMMING—AS WE ADD PANELS, EVENTS AND OTHER PROGRAMMING, NEW ITEMS WILL BE LISTED HERE IN THE VARIOUS PROGRESS REPORTS (NO SCHEDULE, MERELY AS INFORMATION IS UPDATED—CHECK IN OFTEN); PRIOR DATA WILL BE ACCESABLE VIA EMBEDDED LINK.  
 _~ ~ ~ ~ ~  
_ _ **click HERE to suggest topics and panelists; deadline 4/1/14**_

* * *

Once upon a time, when hotels were cheap and so were the guests, I attended probably a convention a month: fantasy and s-f, mystery, and the good ol' Star Trek conventions. (Back when I was younger and healthier, I even went running with a pack of other fen in the wake of George Takei—I wasn't the first to fold, but I only made it four miles; I think three finished the whole ten.) Conventions are like SCA wars: captive audience, money saved up just to spend, spend, spend—and, hey, it was fun. I started off as an attendee until I stumbled over CarbonCopyCon, a science fiction/fantasy convention aimed not toward fans of movies and television shows but focusing on books. I could attend, have tables in the hucksters' room and _write off the whole weekend as a legitimate business expense._

To quote Gru in _Despicable Me_ : "Light. Bulb."

LibriCon was another annual event, booked on or around the anniversary of Shakespeare's birth and death—as best hotel availability can manage. It's been as early as the end of February, as late as the middle of June, and they try to work around Book Expo. The name of the convention—from the Latin word _libris_ —and the date of the convention were the only real links to taste and literature. Everything else was pulp fiction: mostly mysteries and thrillers, some fantasy, s-f, horror, romance, you name it.

It was hit or miss. The convention didn't attract high rollers; you wouldn't find Stephen King or James Patterson. You _would_ find JoEllen Bransford, Frank Eugene Campbell, Tristan Isolde (yeah, I know; I hope it's a pseudonym), Melissa Kino—people who sold a fair number of books but their names never hit the NY Times Bestseller lists. People who sometimes made a living as a writer, even if they might pull down more working as a cashier at Target—and some who supplemented their income as a writer by also working at Target. You found people with small but loyal throngs of fans, fans who gladly trudged to independent booksellers like my little palace of printed gems for book signing events or to small conventions like LibriCon in the hopes of getting an autograph or even a picture with said author.

In addition to fans you got unpublished writers, there for the tips of the trade in the hope that the gold plate of these minor gods might rub off. You found people willing to come to the convention for a guest fee or just expenses, in the hope that they would pump up sales of their literary wonders. (Many came trucking boxes of their latest book, selling at a discount. These writers were from publishing houses lucky to rate a back corner with a dozen copies on their tables at Book Expo. This took more effort, but the audience was a _paying_ audience, not booksellers and reviewers looking for a pile of freebies.)

The worst I did was break even and I figured it was worthwhile as an advertising expense. The best? Ah, that was the year Vivian Austin attended. She ripped around the con in an electric wheelchair, snorting, "Oh, pshaw!" (yes, really, 'pshaw') at anyone who asked about her rumored 6-9 month life expectancy. "I'm not a carton of yogurt with an expiry date!" She found my corner of the dealers' room, checked her name on the first bookcase and yelled, "Maud! Mercy, Maud! Mercy, mercy, Maud! Purple spotted Dalmatians and hand-tatted antimacassars! _I_ don't even have a copy of _Blood_ _Lines_ any more!"

Of course I had to offer to make a gift of it; she graciously declined and opened the cover. "Is it _really_ worth that much?" she gasped.

"First edition hardback, jacket in excellent condition, original brodart, prior owner's name in ink on flyleaf, no other markings. Out of print. Very minor shelf wear. The prices range from one-fifty—the seller tends to undervalue her stock so she gets a faster turnover—to three-seventy-five." She gasped even more broadly and splayed her hands on her chest dramatically. "It's…well, he overvalues his stock, based on the fact that it passed through his gifted hands." I flicked my eyes toward the far corner.

"Wondrous Winston," she murmured. "Gotcha, pumpkin. You take checks?"

I'd had a decent run of customers all weekend, but within an hour I had a flood of people. Every person who saw the copy of _Blood Lines_ in her jealously protective grasp was told about the little redheaded girl (I felt like Charlie Brown's girlfriend) who was honest and ethical and had a fabulous range of books. I should have paid her for her advertising services.

And those doomsayers asking about her health? Oh, pshaw. She was with us another 7 years, finishing _Uncommon Law_ and mailing it off two weeks before passing away peacefully in her sleep at 94. She left detailed outlines for another 20-plus books and her granddaughter has been "co-authoring" them for the past 15 years. Even if she didn't have the draw of her grandmother's loyal fans (grandma had started writing when Agatha Christie was in first print run, for Pete's sake), this girl would do well on her own. (Grandma left detailed outlines, yes; but _she_ had to bring them to life.) She comes to LibriCon every year because her grandmother had devotedly attended and she had come _with_ her grandmother all those years—and she had very fond memories.

"Millennium? Dare we attend?" Ducky teased, looking over my shoulder at the website.

"Hey, we had an attempted murder—which you solved, thank-you-very-much—and a whiz-bang wedding and reception. Why shouldn't we dare?"

"Luck of the Scots," he misquoted.

"Captive audience of small interest authors. Of course I'm going." I pointed to the meager list of attending authors (it was early days; the list would grow). "Janet will be there, I get a huge run on her books when she does a signing at the store, or at Libri."

"Along with that vile cat of hers," he said with a disgusted look.

"Mimsy is the star of the books, of _course_ she's going. You just don't like her because she barfed on your shoe. She has a nervous stomach. The other Mimsys never did, she's really not suited to the limelight." Janet has gone through at least four of the long-haired black cats in the years I've known her. The original Mimsy was already getting up in years when Janet started going to conventions; Mimsy the First was an insulin-dependent diabetic and Janet didn't trust anyone else to take care of her. She lived to the ripe old age of 23, so Janet must have been on the right track. Interestingly enough, nobody has commented that Mimsy had been around over 30 years… For mystery fans, they aren't that observant.

Imitating Underfoot, Lexi sidled up and nudged under my arm. "What's for dinner?"

"Don't do that, dingdong, you don't like having your arm jostled when you're drawing, do you?"

"Sorry… what's for dinner?"

One-track mind. "Daddy's turn to cook. Ask him."

"What did we have last night?" Ducky asked, beating her to the punch.

She frowned. "Uh… wemon meringue pie." Working backwards, clearly. "Wamb! We had wamb."

"What would be a good way to use leftover lamb?"

"Gyros!" she said with great enthusiasm. We had gone to the Greek Festival a couple of weeks ago and she had chowed her way through three gyros throughout the day.

"Wrong kind of lamb. I was thinking the lamb and the leftover potatoes and carrots—"

"Wamb stew?" She clapped her hands. Our kid is an enthusiastic eater, bless her growth spurts.

"Sounds good. Give me a hand?" The second comment was to me.

"I'll be in to help as soon as I finish my registration. I'll have four tables, four memberships. You coming?"

Ducky shrugged noncommittally. "Work permitting."

"Con?" Lexi perked up. She'd gone to a half a dozen already.

"Yeah, but it's not a kid-con. Panels and talks, dealer's room, film room. Gamers room for oldsters, no kids room."

"Oh. Okay." She had insisted on going to UniCon and been bored stiff. She knew not to argue if I said it wasn't a kid friendly convention. She gave me a prissy, scolding look. "Mommy, you'ww ruin your eyes wooking at the computer in this wight."

She's heard me scold Mother probably fifty times. It's irritating to hear your words coming out of your kid's face, especially when she's only four.

"For heaven's sake—" Good grief, now she sounded like my _mother_. "—turn on the dawnzer!"

I laughed and she grinned, pleased I'd gotten the joke. "Pardon?" Ducky asked politely. He _hadn't_ gotten the joke.

"Dawnzer," I repeated.

" _Oh, say can you see_ ," Lexi belted out. " _By the dawnzer wee wight._ "

Light dawned, if you'll pardon the pun. "Ah. _Dawn's early light_ ," he enunciated.

"We've been reading _Ramona the Pest_ in the afternoon," I explained. "Ramona learns the song in kindergarten and misunderstands the lyrics. Lexi thought it was particularly amusing."

"Do you know what that is?" Ducky asked.

"Dawnzer? It's a wamp."

"I meant mishearing the lyrics."

"Uh—I made a mistake?" she guessed.

"Well, Ramona made the mistake. But it's a particular type of mistake. Misunderstood lyrics are called _mondegreens_ ," Lexi looked baffled. "A young woman wrote an article wherein she described her chagrin at learning that she had misunderstood the lyric in the song _The Bonny Earl of Murray_. What should have been:

 _Ye Highlands and ye Lawlands,  
Oh! Where ha'e ye been:  
They ha'e slain the Earl of Murray,  
And they __**laid him on the Green.**_

She misunderstood as:

 _And_ _ **Lady**_ _ **Mondegreen.**_ _"_

He explained by singing the lyrics in his pleasant tenor and enunciating carefully.

"I'm sure I have a copy of _'Scuse Me While I Kiss This Guy_ at the store, I'll bring it home." Now _Ducky_ looked baffled. "It's a common mondegreen. Misunderstanding ' _'scuse me while I kiss the sky'_ from Jimi Hendrix." Ducky nodded in understanding. "Another mistake named after someone—this one is a real person, not like 'Lady Mondegreen'—is a _Spoonerism_. Poor Professor Spooner—back in the eighteen hundreds, he was known for switching syllables around. Like—" I searched my memory. "Like Auntie Evvie's 'hucking fungry' instead of the rude comment about being hungry. Or, oh, yes—instead of _is it customary to kiss the bride_ at the wedding, it came out _is it kisstomary to cuss the bride_."

"Only when she burns dinner," Ducky said cheerfully.

"Bite me." I pointed to the kitchen. "Go thou and do what you do so well. I'm going to finish registration, then _we_ will flip through _Joy of Lex_." I pointed to the third bookcase. "See the matroyshka kitties on the second shelf? That's the etymology shelf. Those are all books about word origins and language. See if you can find _Joy of Lex_. It looks almost like your name, just missing the 'i.'" I clicked on the registration link, did a authorization for the four tables, then clicked on the volunteer link and said I'd help out with the autograph sessions or the special events. I'd been called upon to help maybe twice in thirty plus years; I had a better track record than I did at Bar Harbor Preschool, for sure. "That's the one," I called as Lexi held up a fat paperback book. I clicked the _email progress reports_ radio button, typed in my email address and Ducky's, signed off and sat on the couch with my daughter and a favorite book for the next half hour. By the time we went in to our brand spanking new kitchen (the result of a fire that still gave me nightmares) to help Ducky with dinner, she had learned a favorite from an old children's book. _If at first you don't fricassee, fry, fry a hen._ When she recited this at the dinner table, Mother thought it was hysterical.

The rest of the year seemed to speed by at Warp 9. Only a few weeks later my best friend from childhood, Laurie Taylor (née Peadie), came to visit for a long weekend and then, _whammo_ , it was September and Lexi was going into kindergarten. We survived the trauma of all that went with that momentous occasion (barely survived, when I discovered she had destroyed her hair just before picture day), the shock of Daisies being expected to sell Girl Scout cookies, Christmas—oh, boy, Christmas—and then it was a new year all over again.

And 2014 was the year of Charlie's magic birthday. I remember _my_ Sweet Sixteen—my mother, sentimental to a fault, had a dozen white roses delivered to the house during dinner. I've loved white roses ever since. The first flowers Ducky sent to me? White and sterling roses.

Charlie, being Charlie, was more wrapped up in her last semester of high school and heading off to college in the fall than she was in getting her license or her Sweet Sixteen party. Finally her mothers just threw up their hands and Lily said, "Fine, if you won't give us input, you live with what we select for your party."

"' _When_ _you_ _have_ _to_ _make a_ _choice_ _and_ _don't_ _make_ _it_ , _that_ _is_ _in_ _itself a choice_ ,'" Charlie said absently, not even looking up from her Xeroxed pages of _1984_ and _The_ _Handmaid's_ _Tale_ and her industrious multicolored highlighting of same.

"William James," I identified. I had used the quote in a Sociology class in college when debating the recent Roe v. Wade ruling and it had stuck with me. Interesting nod to the compare/contrast paper she was writing.

Charlie held up a thumb to acknowledge my correct answer and grabbed a pen to make neatly printed notes in the margin of the page with an arrow pointing to the highlighted quote.

"Elaborate, please?" Lily asked.

Charlie stuck a finger on the paragraph to mark her place and actually looked up. "Tell me the date. Tell me the time. Throw me in the car. I shall eat, drink and be merry and promise _not_ to review my physics notes on the sly. But please do not ask me to make any decisions, for I cannot." She gave them a most winsome smile. "I shall enjoy whatever you plan. But now—" She peeled a red post it flag from the dispenser and stuck it where her finger had rested. "Grandma is waiting for me to read to her before bedtime."

Ducky smiled, a slightly sad smile. " _Sophy?_ " Georgette Heyer's _The Grand Sophy_ is one of Mother's favorite books.

Charlie nodded and cocked her head. "I don't know if it's because she doesn't remember that we read it a last month… or that she so enjoys it, she wants to hear it at least once a month. Either reason is acceptable." On the way to Mother's room, she paused briefly to plant a smooch on Lily and Evvie's cheeks. "Plan as thou wilt," she said mock-dramatically. "I shall attend—and I know I shall enjoy."

I guess she was listening in years ago when Ducky and I were planning our wedding and I told him, 'Just choose whatever you want, whomever you want, wherever you want, tell me when and where and I'll show up—I don't care! Just, please, for my sake, choose _some_ thing. _Any_ thing!' Of course there were going to be more people attending her Sweet Sixteen than our wedding (we worked to keep it small), but abdicating a lot of the responsibility turned out okay for me. And our Christmas party not quite 3 weeks later was close to the guest list for her upcoming party. Close.

While Charlie read the escapades of Sophia Stanton-Lacey and her hapless relatives (I had read it several times to Mother myself, and could almost recite it from two rooms away), her moms plotted ideas for her party. Unfortunately, they were still stuck in 'theme' mode. They batted ideas back and forth: science-fiction, superheroes, ballet, pirates, zombies—each idea more unlikely than the rest.

Ducky was keeping quiet, but when it hit 'zombies' the roll of my eyes was probably audible.

"Care to weigh in?" Ev asked with scathing politeness.

"Yes. You—both of you—of all people should know you're not dealing with a nine year old little kid and pin the tail on the donkey. I'm not saying go to the extreme of some of those insecure, insane parents on that stupid _Sweet_ _Sixteen_ show—"

"So I shouldn't try to hire Justin Beiber to entertain?" Ev asked innocently.

"D-I-V-O-R-C-E," Lily sang and literally spelled out in no uncertain terms.

"No ballerina décor, either," I said firmly. "But make it _pretty_. Girly. Fluffy. Sparkly."

" _Charlie_?" Ev said dubiously.

"I don't want to go all facts of life on you—but she's a young woman now, not the tomboy from six years ago. Sure, she has her rough and tumble moments. Plenty of them. But you saw her at Christmas. Boyfriend. Velvet, lace and a hint of makeup."

"Makeup?" they chorused, horrified.

"Just a teensy bit. You didn't even notice! Point is: she's a young lady, not a little girl."

"So do you have any concrete ideas?" Lily asked.

I thought. Hard. From behind me, I heard my husband softly say, "Winter wonderland. Fairy lights. Crystal snowflakes." I turned around. " _Frozen_?" he said with an apologetic smile. Like almost every other little girl, Lexi had fallen in love with the movie and we had seen it several times. If he could pull off the ice castle, more power to him. As I turned back to Ev and Lily, he quietly added, "White roses…"

White roses.

I thought back to my own sixteenth birthday. The roses that arrived during dinner. The most beautiful roses I had ever seen in my life. Magical, how a dozen simple flowers could transform you into a grown up—or close, anyway.

"Roses," I echoed. "White roses. Go from there."

Charlie approved. And the party was a smash. They're going to have to work hard to surpass it when she gets married—which, hopefully, will not be for many years to come.

* * *

Charlie's birthday is followed in short order by Mother's (a couple of times we have had joint parties). I had barely chased down the last snowflake when I started ordering supplies and making plans for Mother's 106th birthday. (It was a handy cheat. By December of a given year, Mother would be 100 years older than Lexi and 90 years older than Charlie. So long as I could keep one of them straight, the others fell in line.) Her party wouldn't be nearly as crowded as Charlie's (to be blunt, most of her friends are _dead_ ) but we still figured on thirty or forty people.

I was in the middle of thumbing through novelty item catalogs (Mother wanted a piñata filled with candy and toys and treat bags for all attendees) when the phone rang. I grabbed the receiver automatically with an absent "Mallard residence" for good measure.

"Sandy? Sandy Talmage?"

"Uh—yeah." I respond to anything close. "Can I—"

"Sorry, sorry! It's Cilly, Cilly Ting."

Cecelia had been "Cilly" since birth. Unlike one of my part-timers, Chanda Davis, who married _out_ of her 'was your mother stoned?' name of Chanda Lear, Cilly married Dr. Raymond Ting, a microbiologist with NIH, and took the name "Silly Thing" with great glee.

But instead of her usual happy-go-lucky chirp, the chairman of LibriCon sounded ready to cry. Or like she had been crying. A lot. "Cilly, Cilly, what's wrong? Are you okay? Ray? The kids? What's wrong?!" We had a typical convention friendship. No contact for most of 360 or so days and a sudden break of four or five days of intense convention playtime mixed in.

"We're fine, we're fine, it's Melanie and Wes!"

Blank. "Uh…."

"Seen At The Crime!"

"Oh, yeah, right. Got it. What happened? Are _they_ okay?"

"Oh, my god, you haven't _heard_? Oh, my god. You _haven't_ heard!"

I listened as she rambled. Melanie and Wes Alberts were the owners of Seen At the Crime Books (another store having long since snagged the more logical name Scene Of the Crime when Wes and Mel opened). After some 20 years in the crime and mystery book selling business, Melanie put practical study to work. She was good, but her timing wasn't. When the bomb she'd wired to the engine went off, Wes was all the way in the back yard. Bombs, she could do. Timers, not so much.

Cue lawyer one (attempted murder) and lawyers two and three (divorce). For them, the convention was off (and Thanksgiving would be very awkward, given that Mel's sister could be listed as a co-respondent if they cared about that any more). The store was closed and being liquidated and—

"The autograph sessions have totally fallen apart! Mel and Wes were taking care of it all, this close to the con, I don't know who, I'm tearing my hair out, can you help, please, I don't know—"

"Cilly, of course—" _Oooh, Chinese yo-yos, Mother loves those, good for the treat bags._ "Um—what? Oh, yeah, I can help. You need me to call some friends, get them to show—?" She started to babble her thanks. Her cool was totally blown. Normally she was so calm and collected that if _Island in the Sea of Time_ became reality and Nantucket disappeared in a flash, she would note the date, time, temperature and humidity without batting an eyelash. Mess with her convention, her baby of almost forty years, older than her own children? Fall apart time. "Cilly, I'm happy to help—but could you send this to me? Email? I'll do whatever you need, it's just that it's my mother-in-law's birthday in two weeks, she's turning a hundred and six—"

"Wow!" Now that disaster was, if not diverted, at least lessened, Cilly could look at the rest of the world with something less than panic. "I met her at your Christmas party, right after you got married. She's a hoot!"

"Understatement," I said dryly, thinking of some of Mother's escapades over the years. "Send me the email—who, what, yadda, yadda. And—you owe me a margarita in the consuite."

"Strawberry. Double."

"You know me so well."

I hung up the phone and turned back to the catalogue, and promptly forgot the whole thing.

Out of sight, out of mind.  
Out of mind, back in a moment.  
Out of mind, _period_ …

Mother's birthday was as much a blast as Charlie's—just very different. She had her heart set on a traditional kid's party, like we'd had for Lexi: pin the tail on the donkey, pass the grapefruit, clothespin drop—we left off things like musical chairs, just to be safe. And, of course, the piñata.

Did we have fun? You bet we did. Even "Gunny" Gibbs had a blast (and provided the _coup de grâce_ to the stubborn piñata (Spongebob Squarepants—don't ask)). Even the weather cooperated. Sunny and a little cool, but not yet another day of traffic–jingering snow.

While Mrs. McKirk was gathering her booty (with four great-grandkids, she wiped out the competition on the party games; Suzy came in a close second), she caught me as I was collecting debris in the back yard. "Lovely party, Cassandra. Such a fun idea!"

"Yeah, I think Mother just knocked the hundred off and decided to have another sixth birthday."

"Eternal youth," she laughed.

"Something like that."

"I… need to ask you a professional question."

"Fire away." I tossed a handful of sticky plates in the trash and leaned my butt against the table.

"Mr. McKirk collected magazines." She never called her late husband by his first name, always a gently deferential 'Mr. McKirk.' " _Alfred Hitchcock, Mike Shayne, Ellery Queen_ , all those old mystery magazines. I boxed them up when he passed and I just found them in the attic when I was cleaning. Could you… take a look? Take a look at them? Tell me if they're worth anything?"

"I have to be honest, I don't deal much in pulps and periodicals," I admitted. "But I'd be happy to check them out. I love old mystery magazines." True enough. I grew up sneaking up to _our_ attic to read Dad's old mystery and sci-fi magazines. "Mother's going down for a nap, I could come over now if you want—"

"Oh, could you, please? I'm so wishy-washy about selling them…"

"I'm going to a convention in a couple of months, there's a dealer who specializes in paperbacks and pulps from the first half of the twentieth century. If you decide to sell, he's a square deal. I'll get his number for you." I looked around for Ducky. "Hon? I'm running over to Joan's for a sec—"

Ducky looked up from the tray of wilted veggie bits he was scraping into the rabbit's bowl. "'A sec?'" he echoed. He raised an eyebrow. "Shall I time you?"

"Smartass. I'll be back in twenty. Thirty, tops."

"You don't have to climb all the way to the attic," Mrs. McKirk said as we trudged over to her house. "My grandson brought them all down last weekend and put them in my husband's old office. I've paid attention to what you do for selling books, so I started making a list of the titles and dates." I nodded approvingly. "I just didn't realize what a task it would be! It would be easier in the garage, you can barely walk through the room—but I was worried the garage would leak, all that paper—it would be such a mess…"

Understatement.

There would have been _papier_ _mâché_ for the masses. The boxes of used books we had dodged for the winter carnival? Nothing. The crates of Girl Scout cookies we had finally, mostly, cleared out? Close…

She had a wall of boxes reminiscent of when I cleared out Chanda's grandmother's books several years ago. The idea that these were all old mystery magazines was frightening.

(And intriguing.)

"May I…?"

"Oh, please!"

I started with the box she was in the middle of neatly listing on a legal notepad and within minutes I was tenderly paging through digest magazines that were as old as Mother, or nearly so. Dime magazines—a row of them literally called _Dime Mysteries. Real Mystery. Sherlock Holmes Mystery Magazine. Thrilling Mystery. Hutchinson's Mystery Story. Mystery Novels Magazine. Mercury Mystery._ Many were older than the ones I remembered reading at midnight with a flashlight.

"These are so cool! I love how language changes over time. Listen: _'A motorcar!' Caroline clasped her hands in a paroxysm of joy. 'Oh, Papa, how cunning!' Her aunt, the Dowager Lady Chillingham, was of another mind. She had willingly taken her widowed brother-in-law and niece into her home but was averse to championing his myriad interests—many of which involved frightening chemicals, such as his incessant photography or dangerous machinery such as the touring car that now sat in front of Willowstoke. But she was a mild, complaisant woman who could never even scold the cook over a burnt roast. She managed a timid, 'Oh, Francis…' but said no more_." I gently set the magazine back in the box. "Joan, if I had the room, _I'd_ buy these—not to sell, to keep!"

She laughed. "I could at least visit them, then."

She was clearly unsure about parting with the magazines. "Everything is in great shape, what I've seen. No silverfish nibbling on the paper, no termites…I'll see if I can find price guides online, that will give you an idea if you should bother listing the rest."

"I'll continue—that way if I decide to sell them, I have some of the work done, rather than playing 'catch up.'"

Ducky was working on dinner when I entered the kitchen. I gave a guilty look at the clock. Had I really been gone over three hours? Damn; I had. "Sorry."

"Oh, that's all right…" he said casually, smashing leftover boiled potatoes to make potato cakes. A little _too_ casually. "I figured since you had lost your mind, you had probably lost track of time, too."

"Hey," I protested. "Not nice!" He stopped smashing and gave me a scolding look. "What?"

He crooked his finger and headed toward the office. Still a little perturbed, I followed. At his desk, he pointed to the computer screen. "I was checking the progress report to see if there were additions to the authors list…"

Knowing that I had a convention looming, I had been checking the author list every week or two since New Year's. Ducky had been helping, going online and playing Amazon—you know, "if you like x, you might like y" and discovering all sorts of fun stuff I had never heard of, which was why I had the progress reports going to his email as well as mine. "Yeah?"

He clicked back to the first page of the progress report.

 _~ ~ ~ ~ ~ LibriCon 2014 ~ ~ ~ ~ ~  
_ May 15-19  
Millennium Hotel, Washington DC

 **ConCom**  
Chairthing: Cecelia Ting  
Registration: Raul Fournier  
Dealers Room: Norma Edwards  
Art Show: Rosalie Nathan  
Security: Dorsai Irregulars and KDC (Keith Williams)  
Masquerade/Cosplay: Zoe Lasko  
Charity Auction: Marc Lexton  
Consuite: Patrick and Anne Sheldon  
Film Room: Kyle Cooper  
Panels: Gary Hayes  
Banquet: Patrick and Anne Sheldon  
Murder Mystery: Anne Sheldon, Rosalie Nathan, Cecelia Ting  
Special Event Tickets: Robbie Andres

And at the bottom of the list:

Autograph Sessions/Author Receptions: Cassandra Talmage-Mallard

"Oh, _crap_ ," I groaned.

"NAVY?" he asked with a smirk. _Never Again Volunteer Yourself._

"Crap, crap, _crappity,_ crap, crap! I told Cilly I'd help! When did _help_ become _run the show_?"

After dinner I sifted through my emails. There it was, innocently tucked between my weekly coupons for Shari's Burgers and an email from my mother with a gazillion cute kitten pictures. Including spam, I averaged 60 or 70 emails a day. No wonder it got lost.

 _Sandy:_

 _Here's the current list of authors and contact info. If you could get in touch with them, let them know you're taking over for Wes and Mel? And if you have any names you might be able to get at this late date, I'd appreciate it. Wes and Mel were always a little lax getting the updates to me, but this time they were kind of late doing anything. They were planning a reception of some kind, it was on their website, but the website is shut down. They are really leaving us in the lurch. I understand what happened, but…!_

 _They always absorbed the cost for the autograph sessions (room fee, etc.) and receptions and then wrote the expense off as advertising for the store. Let me know if you have any objection to following the same path; we could find the money in the budget if we had to. The speakers' fees are already coming out of the convention budget. Make sure to be very firm with Patrice Ingram-Ashcraft, Marguerite DuPres' assistant; she'll try to get away with murder. Don't let her. (I'm sure you remember her from prior years. Nothing has changed.)_

 _I've attached 1) the list of authors 2) Marguerite DuPres' contract 3) standard contracts 1, 2 and 3 for any additions. Go for the lowest you can get, but you're authorized for any of the 3 agreements._

 _When you talk to Banquet Services at the hotel, ask for Scott. I kind of remember that you know the GM?_

 _Unless I hear back, I'll assume everything is copacetic. Thank you again! I owe you big time. Oh—the dealer's tables and memberships are comped, just for a start. TY!_

 _Cilly_

Two weeks ago. Crap, crap, _crappity_ , crap, crap.

I started wracking my brains. Who did I know who _wasn't_ on the list? McGee, if he was willing. He's actually kind of a big name—it would make a good "draw" to make up for such a late start on the reception. Receptions?

Oh, man, _receptions_! What was I getting into? How much was this going to set me back?

There was a rustle behind me; one of the kitchen canisters appeared at my elbow. "Sucker?" Ducky asked innocently.

I pulled out a root beer Dum Dum. "Sucker."

* * *

I spent the weekend exchanging emails with the already invited guests and typing 'I don't know' over and over in response to the 'WTF?' questions regarding Wes and Mel. I canvassed my 'take my card' collection and sent out another twenty invites to writers I'd met at other conventions and did my best to phrase things in such a way that it didn't sound like they were last minute choices. Eighteen accepted, and all of them were happy to come for expenses and a chance to sell their books. Tim, bless his heart, was glad to help out—work permitting. Ducky even put out a call to his old pal Tempe Brennan; unfortunately, she had to decline, but she volunteered to give us a victim spot in her next book for the charity auction. I wanted to kiss her.

I had left a message for Mrs. Islington asking her to call ASAP Monday morning. She's an early bird; I was still home when she called. While I packed lunches and made breakfast, I gave her a quick rundown of the situation.

"And here I thought this was going to be a dull little book convention."

I thought back on some of the wilder conventions over the years. "Well… fairly dull. And this didn't happen at the convention!"

"Thank heaven for small favors. My morning is free; I'd be happy to introduce you to Scott Chambers, our banquet services manager. I understand he's been getting calls from Wesley Alberts regarding a refund of the deposit. Normally we wouldn't do that, deposits are nonrefundable… but if you are taking over the functions—I'm sure we can work something out." Her voice dropped. "Did his wife _really_ set a bomb off in his car?"

"So I hear."

"Oh, _my_ …"

We met up at the hotel at ten and she introduced me to Mr. Chambers. He fits the hotel—about sixty, very tall, stately, reminded me of Ben Kingsley with silver hair. When he turned to lead us to the Georgian room, I bit back a smile. His hair was quite long in the back, neatly scraped into a ponytail and tucked under his shirt and jacket. SCA? Grunge band? One had to wonder.

I had read over the contact for the Georgian room, which was dedicated to the autograph sessions, and I had winced inwardly at the cost. _Advertising_ _expense_ , I kept telling myself. Mrs. Islington had offered to comp the autograph room and my hotel room because of our history. I politely declined, saying we couldn't trade on that goodwill forever and it had been enough to have our wedding and reception paid in full.

The Georgian was next to the Renaissance; the Georgian and Renaissance were the same size and the largest in that wing. The Renaissance was slated for the Dealers Room; on the other side of Renaissance was Regency, which would hold some of the panels in A/B and the art show in C/D. Tudor A/B and C/D were on the other side of the Georgian, and would hold the other (larger) panels and discussions. Speaking as a dealer, the layout was perfect; anyone going to an autograph session who needed something to sign would have plenty to buy in the dealers room—right next door.

Typical convention space: big, empty rooms that could be broken into smaller rooms or joined together for one big room. The layout for the autograph sessions was functional, if dull—six double tables on the east and west breakout walls, staggered so that the line from John Smith's table wouldn't run into Mary Jones' group.

"If the room has a food function, the cost of the room is waived for that day," Mr. Chambers said as we walked the length of the wing.

"Mmmh." Wes and Mel had opted for a finger foods buffet on Friday, so the room cost would be zero for Friday. Yes, the room was free, but they—now I—would be paying for the food. It was less, but still more than I wanted to pay (which was $0.00—I'm cheap). "Too bad I can't charge admission," I muttered.

"Such as… the banquet on Sunday?" Mrs. Islington suggested.

I stopped in my tracks. The tickets for the banquet had been sold out for over a month. $100, choice of chicken, beef or vegetarian. Dinner and a murder mystery. They had taken in $18,000. The cost was $3000 for the food… and the room was then free.

Light.

Bulb.

"Why don't we look at those food brochures?" I suggested with so much chipper enthusiasm that Mrs. Islington gave me a startled look. "Forget finger food. We're going with a theme!" And I will die before I tell Ev and Lily.

We sat at a small table in the Georgian room and Mr. Chambers opened the folio and started setting out colorful pages. "Perhaps a high tea? That sounds very 'Agatha Christie,'" he suggested.

"An excellent idea. How about Saturday?"

"Saturday it is. What about Sunday?"

"How about one each day? We've got close to 800 people already, maybe 1,000 by close, we may have a lot of people interested."

"Or schedule it for Saturday, with the notation that if there is enough interest, Sunday will be added? It would be easy enough for us to add it in as late as a day or two before."

"Good idea. I don't want to do anything really 'sit down,' other than the banquet—even though I know your food is fabulous."

"Are there many attendees under 21?" Mrs. Islington asked.

"Don't know. Not many that I recall from prior years."

"Perhaps a cheese and wine party?" she suggested.

Mr. Chambers set out a sheet that showed a number of ideas, from BYOB/corkage fee to the whole shebang. "We could have non-alcoholic beverages as well—Martinelli's, Welch's for those under 21 or those who don't care to imbibe—and you could have two colors of wristbands so they don't have to show ID every five minutes."

"I like it, I like it. One correction—" I snagged a red pen and put an arrow and an 'h.' "There. Cheese and _Whine_ party. More accurate, given many of the crowd."

Mrs. Islington cracked a small smile (which, given her normally grave manner, equated to whoops of laughter). "Well, we will bill it as Cheese and Wine. But if you list it as Cheese and _Whine_ …" She actually _chuckled._ "I want a copy of that program book. Just for my private files."

"Private. Gotcha." I gave her a sage nod. And winked.

We locked up the main door and headed back toward the office. "Will Mrs. Mallard be joining you?"

Mrs. Islington had found mother 'adorable' during the wedding. "I doubt it."

"What a shame. She wanted to see the garden in spring."

Wow. What a memory. "I can take some pictures today. And maybe we'll take her to dinner at Filene's one of these nights."

"We'd love to see you all." Ducky had told her the story of Mother crashing their opening night. She loved it.

"Oooh, hot tub. Man, that looks good."

"Open twenty four hours a day, as is the outdoor pool. Both are gated, only an adult would be able—are you all right?"

"Just—tripped. Too busy looking at the cell phone screen," I said in disgust. I had tripped over—ah, a hose. It had pulled up a metal spike with a curly-q at the top that almost looked like a treble clef. From my position on the ground, I held up the dirt-tipped spike.

"Hose guide. It should not have been so close to the outside edge of the flower bed." She took the guide and looped the hose through it, then pushed it into the ground a good foot from the edge of the walkway.

"Stuff happens, no harm done." I was dusting off the seat of my pants, and trying to make light of it. But the look on her face was clearly, ' _Not on my watch._ ' Someone was going on report.

Glad it wasn't me. I already had enough to deal with.

* * *

Contracts signed (Cilly had texted back an enthusiastic "OMG, that sounds fantastic! Email the details, I'll update the progress report! I KNEW you'd save my ass!"), I hurried back to the store to get at least _some_ work done before the family descended upon us.

Mother had been wanting to come to the store for a while and Suzy had readily agreed to picking up Lexi at noon and driving everyone into town. When I called Ducky and gave him a rundown of the morning and he heard that Mother, Suzy and Lexi would be at the store, he suggested we 'pop over' to Filene's for dinner and a stroll through the garden. No objections from my quarter. I called to warn Suzy and got back to work.

They arrived just before two. "You'll be fine," I soothed Suzy, who was sure that her khakis and polo shirt wouldn't cut the mustard at Filene's. "I wouldn't go there in my usual work grubbies, but I traded my offensive t-shirt du jour for something semi-grown up since I was going over for a business meeting. We look about the same. We'll both be fine."

"What about Lexi?" she fussed. Mother, she had dealt with, but Lexi was in her pants and t-shirt from school—now bedecked with paint, glitter and the remainders of lunch.

"No sweat. I always have a couple of outfits for her in the closet, just in case. Nothing fancy, but clean and whole. At this age, that's the best I can hope for."

"I remember. Victoria is occupied with that nice young man—"

"Geoff."

"Is there something I can do to help?"

"Yes. Find a book, grab a soda, put your feet up for a few minutes."

"But—"

"I know, I know. But we don't want you to burn out, young lady." I pointed toward the break room.

Laughing, she gave me a snappy salute. "Yes, ma'am!"

By the time Ducky arrived, Mother had helped Geoff shelve half a dozen boxes of books and regaled him with stories of her youth that had a grain or three of truth to them, then turned her assistance to helping Lexi alphabetize the Easy Reader/Littles section of the store (an area that needs perpetual clean up). The alphabet was painted on the top of each bookcase, so they didn't have to sing the "ABC" song the way I sometimes have to do while I'm shelving books.

Suzy was in a comfy armchair where she could keep an eye on Mother—the other eye being quite teary at the end of _The Man Who Fell to Earth_. "Better than the movie," I had commented as I passed by at one point.

"Isn't it always?" she answered.

Well, there were a couple of instances—but, yeah, the button _You Can't Judge a Book By Its Movie_ on the spinner by the register is more often true than not.

"Oh, I loved that book!" Ducky said when she held it up for his inspection. "The movie was dreadful. The casting wasn't bad, but otherwise…" He shrugged. I gave Suzy a 'see?' look.

"Looking forward to this," I sing-songed as I ran the register tape so Valerie could take over.

"You deserve some special treat for the mess you've fallen into," Ducky said feelingly.

"Filene's? I should get conned into things more often."

"I just wish I could do more."

"Awwwww." I propped my chin on my cupped hands. "You mean that?"

"Of course."

"Good. You have a Saturday panel scheduled on correct terminology and procedures in autopsy and morgue scenes. Want to put anyone else on the spot with you?"

I waited for the minor explosion. It never happened. "Oh, that sounds like fun!" There was a giggle from Suzy. "How long will it be?"

"Ah, two hours…?" I said tentatively.

"That's all?"

Suzy and I both laughed. "You're always welcome to adjourn to the poolside tables. Happens a lot," I said. "We can always do a second panel… Let me know who you shanghai so I can get the guest badges."

"What, no red carpet?"

"Don't go there. I'm ready to blast Patrice Ingram-Ashcraft off the map. And it's only been two days."

"Does she want a red carpet for MargueriteDuPres?" Sad; he already recognized her name.

I copied the ending figures into the ledger and dropped it and the register tape in the top drawer. "I'm sure that's next."


	2. FODNOST Finger Of Death, No Saving Throw

**Chapter Two**

FODNOST: Finger Of Death, No Saving Throw

March 2014

* * *

 _~ ~ ~ ~ ~ LibriCon 2014 ~ ~ ~ ~ ~_

PR 5

 _ **~ ~ ~ ~ ~ Special Events ~ ~ ~ ~ ~**_

 _SHOUT OUT to Cassandra Talmadge-Mallard of Papyrus Books for stepping up and rescuing our Authors' Events! In addition to the scheduled autograph sessions, we will be offering a private_ _ **high tea with the authors**_ _on Saturday. Tickets strictly limited to 150; reservations open at midnight on 3/19/14 (Eastern Time). Reservations close at midnight (Eastern Time) on 5/1/14 (earlier if sold out). Limit of 2 tickets per request. Tickets must be paid for at time of reservation. If there are enough requests on wait list, a second tea (also 150 limit) will be scheduled on Sunday._

 _Want some cheese with that whine? A very, VERY special private party is scheduled on Friday._ _ **Cheese and W(h)ine**_ _cocktail hour with the authors. Firm limit of 75. Adults/under 21 with parent/guardian only; under 13 not allowed,_ _period_.

 _ **Murder in the Ballroom:**_ _details to be announced in a special progress report. Watch your email!_

* * *

I was starting to wish Melanie hadn't failed in her method of ending her marriage. At least _she_ would have had to deal with Patrice, not I.

It had taken me the better part of the weekend to get the message through her head: Marguerite DuPres had signed a contract. That contract gave her two choices. 1) She would be paid her speaker's fee and have her room and meals (and Patrice's) covered. Any expenses beyond that—any special requests, items not on the special meal list for room service or in the restaurant, anything beyond the basics—would be deducted from her speaker's fee. Or: 2) She would be paid her full speaker's fee and put a credit card on file with the front desk and special requests would bill to that card.

It had been a _long_ weekend. By Monday I was ready to run a stake through the heart of Marguerite DuPres' personal assistant. It would make great Goth performance art, if nothing else.

The list of emails from her was over 10 the first night. I replied to the first email that 1) special requests would be dealt with by Banquet Services 2) anything not listed in the contract would be deducted from the final payment of Marguerite's participant fee. Further emails simply said, "please see first email."

Marguerite DuPres had a long, lingering reputation. She's actually kind of a horror wunderkind, got published as a high schooler. Back in the early days, one of the first conventions to sign her almost regretted it. They got her hotel bill and had a committee-wide heart attack. Fortunately, they were able to write it off as an expense, but it put a bite into profits. Within the year, word had gotten around: if she wanted to deduct the expenses on _her_ taxes, great—but the convention committee wasn't going to deal with it.

And Patrice knew darn well how the drill went. Why she tried to get the concom to do her dirty work was simply a matter of being a control freak. And a bitch.

It was a weird relationship. Marguerite was a flaky bitch and Patrice was a bitchy flake. They seemed to cordially loathe each other; but, hey, I once had two cats who hissed and snarled during the day but slept curled up in a lump all night. Go figure.

The day after my trip to Millennium to sign my part of the contracts was uneventful. No further emails. None the next day, either. By Friday morning, I was no longer wincing when I opened my email. Yea, no further emails from Dingdong the Wonder Assistant.

That was because she was looking for my phone number.

"Just one moment."

I looked up from where I was laminating signs like a madwoman. Chanda stood in the doorway, handset held out like it was poison. Her voice had the cool civility reserved for mashers, unloved in-laws and political hacks. I could see by the flashing light she had the caller on hold. "Who's in the deep freeze?"

"I have Patrice what's-her-face on the line," she said formally.

"Oh, chocolate frosted pickle chips." My eyes almost rolled out of their sockets. "I may have to kill her."

"I'll help." She said grimly.

I held out a hand. "This is Cassandra." I was as enthusiastic as an uncooked dumpling.

Patrice has a great phone voice—for a 1-800-talk-dirty-to-me phone line. Very low and breathy, it was the demanding "you _will_ do x" that turned off men from any commitment beyond the time to watch a _Columbo_ rerun and made me determined to give no quarter. "Cassandra. This is Patrice Ingram-Ashcraft." (I swear you could hear a soft "hyphen" between the names) "You must get this resolved today. Marguerite will be in a _state_ —"

"I understand," I broke in as smoothly as I could. "As I mentioned in my emails—" ( _every_ _god_ _damned_ _time_ ) "—you need to contact Banquet Services. They are alerted to many of the requests for some of our special participants—" (None of them more "special" than your boss. And you.)

I repeated Scott Chamber's number a few times until she finally gave up. It took less than an hour for Mr. Chambers to call.

"Mrs. Mallard…" There was the faintest tone of distress in his voice. "I need your approval on a few items. I was speaking with Patrice Ingram-Ashcraft—"

"I'll bet you were," I said with a grin, heading toward the office.

"She has a list of—requests—" (I'm sure he edited the word "demands.") "—for Marguerite DuPres. She wants a dozen long stemmed black roses in cut glass vases. A dozen vases. Fresh. Every day. All five days."

Five? That's right, she was coming in Thursday and staying through Monday night. "Yep." I dropped into the chair behind my desk and woke the monitor from sleep mode.

"After the bed is made, housekeeping is to scatter the petals of three dozen MORE roses, red roses, on the mantle." His tone was bordering on incredulous.

"Yep. Go ahead." I clicked on the link for my email server.

"She wants a coffin—!" His voice strayed into a tone of stunned beyond words for a moment. "—set up on the second bed—and a magnum of champagne every evening at nine?!" He must not have dealt with many egocentric entertainers over the years.

"Go for it." I pulled up Cilly's email from a couple of weeks ago, clicked on the attachment of Marguerite DuPres' contract and forwarded it to Scott's email address. "Scott, I just sent you an email. Let me know when you see it."

After a moment: "I have it."

"That is Marguerite DuPres' contract," I said in my best student teacher voice. "Patrice Ingram-Ashcraft has two choices. If she has not given you a credit card to keep on file for Marguerite… During the convention, I want you to keep a list… A _detailed_ list. If it is not a meal that's from the list we have prearranged, she gets charged. Any special requests—roses, champagne, coffins for two—she gets charged. _No_ _discounts_. If she doesn't don't pay for it directly… it gets deducted from her fee. So if she doesn't put a credit card on file… could you please get me a running total every day? That would be great…"

"…everything…?"

"If she wants a bar of soap that isn't the standard, charge it. If she wants red and black towels—"

"Pardon?"

"Oh, she didn't get to the towels? She will. Black drapes to cover the mirrors—one hotel removed the mirrors and, boy, was that a big bill."

He was starting to laugh. "You mean—she—"

"Yep. So if she doesn't pony up that credit card, you keep a list like it's coming right out of your pocket. Every. Last. Penny. Oh, hey—you might send her an estimate list, that might spur her along."

"Would I be… out of line to intimate that if she files a credit card… we might be able to arrange for a discount?"

"If you can keep that mess in her nest, you do whatever you see fit. If we pay for it, we can deduct it as our expense. But it's a royal pain in the patoot."

"It fits her." I almost didn't hear his mutter.

"My dear Mr. Chambers, you have an excellent grasp of the situation."

"Mrs. Mallard… are there any… other…"

"A couple of people who travel with pets; they know about the pet deposit. Some really hard drinkers, nothing worse than any normal convention. Nope, she's the only whackadoodle," I said cheerfully. "Well—the only one I know of."

"I am going to make sure I'm on duty that weekend."

"Really? I thought you'd want to be far away. Far, _far_ away."

"Mrs. Mallard…" I could hear his grin over the phone. "I wouldn't miss seeing this in person for all the chocolate in Hershey, Pennsylvania."

"I'm a chocoholic. That says a lot."

"I know it does," he laughed. "I'm one, too."

Except for a chilly note thanking me for Mr. Chambers' phone number, I didn't hear from Patrice Ingram-Ashcraft again for the next couple of months. Just broke my heart.

* * *

 **May  
** **T-minus-two weeks…**

The lists were closed. We were slated for the Cheese and Whine party (at great outcry, we added the Tudor rooms to the Georgian suite and doubled the attendees) and two teas (also doubled and the panels shuffled around to make more room). Registration was now only 'at the door' and pre-registration had hit over two thousand. No offense to any of our usual participants, but hearing Thom E. Gemcity was coming really knocked our numbers out of the park. Tim was actually getting nervous.

Using the scheduled participant list, I gave Geoff a pull list and Ducky's "if you like x, you might like y" list. I took care of the signed and vintage and oddball stuff and Valerie—who would be running the dealer's tables, with Cherie and Chanda to assist—organized the packing and created last minute labels and signs.

"Sandy, I've got to admit, I haven't heard of a lot of these authors," Geoff said as we worked the mystery section. "I'm doing better with the recommended list. Penny Rae, for example. For her, we get Craig Rice, James Anderson, Agatha Christie's 'Tommy and Tuppence' stories, Georgette Heyer—" He stopped and frowned. "I thought she was Mrs. Mallard's favorite romance writer."

"Mm-hmm. She also wrote a handful of mysteries in the 30s. Very good, too."

He stepped down to the next bookcase. "Janet Bascom. I know, cat stories," he said drily.

"You should. She did a signing here last Christmas."

"Yeah, and that goddamned cat barfed on my suede jacket."

"Language, language," I admonished. "Little pitchers, big ears."

"Dratted cat," he corrected with his best hoity-toity, stiff upper lip, veddy, veddy British accent.

"Better."

We continued to work in relative silence for a while. "Okay. After you got stuck running the costume competition for Con-Dor, you _swore_ you wouldn't be on a concom ever again."

"So how did I get rooked into this?" I filled in. "Simple. I wasn't paying attention. I got blindsided. Let _that_ be a lesson to you. When Silly Thing called, I thought she just wanted me to call around and get some more authors to beef up the list. It wasn't until I read the email a couple of weeks later that I realized I was taking over. And, hey—" I shrugged fatalistically. "It could be worse. Most of the authors are a little flaky—"

"A _little_?" He reached over to the cart and held up a copy of _Half-Life Tale_ by Marguerite DuPres. "This woman sleeps in a _coffin_."

"So does Abby," I sweetly reminded him.

He blushed. "That's different. She's sane. Mostly. This woman supposedly converted her house into a mausoleum and had her teeth capped with _fangs_. I'm surprised she's even coming to the con; it's during the day."

I rolled my eyes. "The house—I don't know. The teeth—she's got slip on caps. There's a guy who's got a table, works out of his room, does dental grade fangs. Great stuff, worth the price. Marguerite? Believe me, it's not because we love her. You just know her publicity points. Her PA—" He cocked his head. "PA, Personal Assistant, just like SCA and Hollywood."

"Gotcha."

"Patrice Ingram-Ashcraft. Ingram-hyphen-Ashcraft. PIA, and boy is she one. Patrice drove me crazy sending her damned— _darned_ —" I corrected at his gleeful 'tsk' finger. "—emails with Marguerite's _needs_. You would not believe it. But—and this is an important but—her devoted fans, who are flaky enough to make _her_ look _mundane_ , schlep to almost every con she goes to. When they added her name on the website, they added 145 people the first night. Total, they added about 400— _just_ for her. So, yeah, they put up with her crap. 400 at 80 bucks a head—because she was added after the registration cut off for January—and nobody bitched at paying $30 more."

"Her fans are _crazier_ that she is." He looked skeptical.

"Hun—ee, you have no idea." I put my stack of books on the cart and held up my hands in a 'wait, you gotta hear this' motion. "I went to a con about, oh, eighteen, twenty years ago. They made that horribly cheesy movie of _Nightfall,_ it was her first book and it was a _low_ -budget flick. She didn't start doing cons until later. It sucked—no pun intended. But it became a late night hit almost as big as _Rocky_ _Horror_. And when it came out on tape, the loyal fans shelled out their twenty-five bucks for the VHS and forty bucks later for the DVD, and play them to death. The main character, Christoffe, was played by, a-h-h-h-h, what's his name, what's his name, oh, yeah, Barry Burgue. He was very, VERY in the closet, he was, hm, 40 or so, so he was still old school. Didn't make him any less sexy, but not everyone can be as "out" as GeorgeTakei."

Geoff laughed. "No, Uncle George is unique."

"Barry is like Rock Hudson. Roddy McDowall. Very popular with the ladies, and very closeted. Even though everyone knew it, nobody talked about it—until that nasty series of articles last year. He's in his 70s, his parents are still alive, it just devastated them… Back when the film came out, I was at a horror con, just hanging out in the consuite. Now, one of the concom was a film student doing her doctoral thesis on vampires in film. She said something about how interesting it was that appeal ignored sexual identity. 'When you consider Barry Burgue is so gay he could have his own pride parade—' and she didn't get any further. This chick in full Victorian regalia—fantastic costume, by the way—almost levitated off the couch, leaped across the room, attacked this woman, screaming, 'Christoffe isn't gay! Christoffe isn't gay!' She believed the whole saga. Believes there's a Matinswood mansion in Matinsport, Christoffe rises from his family crypt and preys on the local wenches."

Geoff looked fascinated. And aghast. "You know what's really scary…?" he mused. I waited. "She probably votes."

He was right. It was scary.

We continued to march through the mystery section. By creative arrangement of furniture—replacing most of the tables with bookcases and setting some out at 90-degree angles—I would have a total of 14 bookcases which would take five to eight boxes each to fill. Have I done this a few times before? Yes, I have.

"I still don't get it. Why _these_ authors?"

"You mean why are we inviting Marguerite DuPres instead of Stephen King?" Geoff nodded. "Well, for starters, we can't afford Stephen King. Though he donated an autographed one-sheet from _The_ _Shining_ for the charity auction. And Stephen King doesn't need us—Lana King does." I waggled a copy of _My Heart Belongs to You._ "Boy, does she. And while we can't afford Stephen King, we _can_ afford Lana. And even though I think her books are total drek—someone buys them, someone reads them. So we send her an invite, she's one who is willing to come for free. If we give her some autograph sessions and a table to sell her books, she's happy to come. Even if her name only draws twenty people—"

"—that's twenty people paying registration," he finished.

"Smart boy."

This was the first time he had helped me cull for this convention, so he was curious about some of the authors and continued to quiz me. "Penny Rae looks like she publishes pretty regularly—"

"She does. She's a niche writer, like a lot of the guests. Specializes in stories set in the early 20th Century—twenties and thirties, mostly. Cozies. Murder at the manor type of stories. She's pretty good, but she's kind of quiet and reserved. Wears period clothes, too. She's got the figure to get away with it," I said wryly. She does; I don't.

"Adrian Collier?"

"Lesbian romances," I said cheerfully. "Very well written, I hear, just not a big seller." Geoff looked like he was going to say something, then checked himself. "Guys would rather watch it than read it." Bingo; he looked only faintly embarrassed.

"A guy… writing lesbian romance?"

"Adrian used to be Adrienne. He's transgender." Welcome to the 21st Century! "Definitely got the inside track."

He nodded a 'got it' nod. "Like Ian Harvie the comedian."

"Yep. Oh, make sure to pull Vivian Austin's books. I forgot to add her—her granddaughter will be there, the books are still filed under Vivian's name."

"Like Dick Francis and his son."

"Or Tony Hillerman and his daughter. Right."

Geoff held up a copy of _Murder Makes Waves._ "Okay, I know some people call these chick-lit mysteries, but I think they're funny as he—heck," he stumbled. Any chance she'll be at the convention?"

"Not without a séance," I said with a sad sigh. "Anne died about ten years ago."

"I'm starting to feel like a curse," he muttered. "As soon as I like an author—they die."

"She died while you were in, what, high school? Community college? Not guilty."

"Well, they either die or I find out _after_ I get hooked on their books that they already died. Close enough."

"So go back to reading Hardy Boys and Nancy Drews. Don't damage the stock!" I yelped when he batted me on the head with the book.

Romance was done. Horror was done. Sci-fi was done. General/miscellaneous was just getting started.

"Wow. P. R. Bedicker really churned 'em out."

I glanced up from my floor position. By craning my neck, I could see a gaping hole in the shelf. "I remember reading his stuff back in—mmh, no, not college, it was an extension class I took on writing mysteries. The guy had really intricate plots, great detail in his research. Don't know why he didn't catch on like Tom Clancy or Wilbur Smith. But he's always been in print, so that's good."

Geoff flipped through the list. "Yeah, he's had something in print every eight to twelve months, wow. Past few years—hmm. Almost a year and a half gap between the last three. Including his newest book—last December."

"Even John Creasy and Isaac Asimov slowed down eventually."

"Yeah," Geoff snorted. "Death will do that."

"Smartass." I muttered.

"Better than a dumbass," he sang out.

We strive for professionalism at Papyrus.  
We often miss.


	3. Lightning is one hell of a murder weapon

**Chapter Three**

Lightning is one hell of a murder weapon. And the best part is it can't be traced.

May 15-16, 2014

* * *

 _~ ~ ~ ~ ~ LibriCon 2013 ~ ~ ~ ~ ~_

PR 7

 _Added panels (for full list click_ _ **HERE**_ _)_

 _Research—Accuracy and What's Enough (or Too Much)_

 _Readings From The Slush Pile: There's A Good Reason Some Stuff Doesn't Hit Print_

 _Attack Of The Sub-Genres:  
_ _The Owner Of An Antique Store  
_ _Who Publishes Cookbooks In Her Spare Time  
_ _and Solves Mysteries With The Aid Of Her Psychic Cat  
_ _That Is The Reincarnation Of  
_ ** _ENOUGH, ALREADY!_**

 _Accuracy in the Autopsy Room (panel discussion lead by Dr. Donald Mallard, MD, ME (NCIS); other participants to be announced)_

SPECIAL EVENTS

 **Murder in the Ballroom**

 _Was it Colonel Mustard in the library with the wench? Er, wrench? Following our banquet Sunday, someone in the room will turn up missing. There will be teams of 12—not necessarily your banquet tablemates, you could be working against the person sitting to your left!—and a prize for the team that solves the crime first. Email Anne Sheldon (click_ _ **HERE**_ _) for details._

 _ **Banquet: SOLD OUT (Wait List CLOSED)  
**_ _ **Cheese and Whine reception: SOLD OUT (Wait List CLOSED)  
**_ _ **Saturday Tea: SOLD OUT (Wait List CLOSED)  
**_ _ **Sunday Tea: SOLD OUT (Wait List CLOSED)**_

* * *

 **Thursday  
** **1800**

"Okay, that takes care of _that_ disaster… Kyle, did the freebies finally come in from Universal?" Cilly glanced up and caught Kyle's thumb up. He was busy cramming the last of his sandwich into his mouth, the 'survival rations' set out for concom being cleared off in preparation for the consuite being open to early arrivals Thursday night. "Anything good?" Kyle waggled his hand: _comme ci,_ _comme ça_. "Oh, well. It's free."

"Price is right," I said. Free t-shirts from conventions have been a staple of my wardrobe for decades.

"Time for the Shepard's Prayer?" asked the Keith Williams, head of security.

"Oh, lord, please don't let us screw up," everyone said fervently (a couple of people using the original 'fuck up' as said by Captain Alan Shepard).

"R'amen," Cilly said, shutting her convention notebook with a thump. "Consuite is now open to pros, hoes and granola." AKA writers, assistants and hangers-on, and the fruits, nuts and flakes who live from con to con, people impatient enough to show up the night before the official convention open.

There were three cereal bits already waiting outside the front door to the consuite. One I recognized from at least twenty years of conventions, a tiny mouse named Alice Martin. She would spend 90% of her time in the consuite, munching carrot sticks and M&Ms, asking any and all to read and review her manuscript. She had been making corrections to this gem for longer than I'd known her—it was a couple of hundred pages of _dot matrix print_ for Pete's sake, faded and curling at the edges. All of the regular attendees (and most of the authors) knew to avoid her. They were always polite—even Marguerite DuPres was civil to her—but they did a neat duck and run. Alice would always find a few newbies who would be flattered to be asked for editorial input… and they'd quickly realize they were in big trouble. I made a mental note to warn Tim.

Jenny Keppler was another lost soul who lived from con to con. Hers was a sad case. Alice inflicted the weekend on herself; Jenny's was a punishment. Her father was a book dealer who was so obnoxious he had been effectively banned from any convention for almost as long as Alice had been trotting out her manuscript. He sent Jenny with boxes of books and instructions not to come back without every one signed—and if an author didn't show, she had to provide a photo of the announcement or a signed note from a concom member stating this. The man is a tin plated dictator. I was amazed he ponied up the bucks for a room at Millennium. (He hadn't; he booked her at the Day's Inn. Beet red with embarrassment, she had found Cilly that morning and asked if she could use a corner of the consuite to hold the boxes so she wouldn't have to roll a luggage cart 6 blocks through DC traffic several times a day. Cilly agreed and even got her son to drive over and pick up the boxes. Jenny almost cried with relief.) We all kept hoping she'd run away from home while at a con, but we weren't holding our collective breaths.

The last wasn't a fan. It was Patrice Ingram-Ashcraft. Technically a pro-ho, but a bit of granola, too, in my opinion. Cilly and I saw her at the same moment and drew together protectively. "Cecelia!" she said in her haughtiest tone. She actually made Jenny and Alice, getting their badges and packets from Raul in the far corner, startle and turn around. "Marguerite's room is _totally_ unacceptable."

"I'm sorry, what is the issue?" Cilly asked evenly.

"To begin with, her room faces _east_! Dawn? Daybreak? Unacceptable!"

"And have you spoken to the front desk, asked if they can move you to another room?" Cilly's voice was still calm.

She looked stunned. _You mean—ask for help? Not snap my fingers and have the peons jump? Inconceivable!_

"And if the front desk is unable to resolve the issue, I gave you Mr. Chamber's number," I added with a pleasant smile. ( _Several_ _times_ , I added to myself.) "And he has assured me he will be here _all weekend._ "

Her eyes narrowed. Scott Chambers hadn't fallen all over himself to do her every bidding and had been an unmovable rock regarding the credit card being put in file. With a snort of derision, she spun on her heel and stalked off.

"Man… why hasn't Marguerite offed that bitch?" Anne Sheldon, one of the consuite hosts, muttered.

"It's not too late to make her one of the victims," her murder mystery co-author suggested.

"For real?" Zoe, the masquerade chairman, piped up hopefully.

"At least we don't have to work with her," I said in my best Pollyanna voice.

"Our mantra in customer service is, 'I'm not married to you. Once I hang up, I'll never have to talk to your sorry self again,'" Patrick, Anne's husband, said. "God willing," he added darkly.

"Yeah, but we see her _every year_ ," Zoe countered. "More, if you go to a lot of cons. That's like having the same jerk call back fifty times in one day!"

Gary Hayes held up his hands. "I swear, one more year of her and I will _lose_ it."

"And Marguerite sees her _every day_ ," Rosalie argued back. "You can only take so much! One of these days she's going to snap and heaven help Pain In the Ass when she does."

Anne giggled. "You just made me think of Lily Tomlin in _9 to 5_."

"Right before she poisons the boss," Kyle tossed out. As the film room chairman, he was a film buff; of course he'd catch that.

"No poison. Given Marguerite DuPres—" Zoe paused dramatically. "She's gonna get a stake through the heart." Great minds think alike; I'd had that idea myself.

"She can't be _all_ bad," Norma Edwards, the voice of sweet reason said. "Marguerite has had her on the payroll—"

"Nice payroll," Rosalie butted in. "Catch those Jimmy Choos on her feet?"

"—for, what, twenty, twenty-five years?" Norma continued as though she hadn't been interrupted.

Cilly shrugged. "She must be awfully good in bed."

There was a chorus of splooges and coughs. "Warn a guy, jeez!" Gary choked.

"Sorry. It made me think of what my mother said about my 'itch' of a sister in law—she can't cook, doesn't clean, won't work outside the house, doesn't go to school, _anything,_ has no personality, no great shakes to look at; after listing all that, Mom said, 'she must be good in bed.'" Another round of coughs and splutters. "I'm _just saying_ … for Marguerite to put up with her, she must be good at _something_."

"Or two sociopaths have found their codependent partner?" Patrick said dryly.

"Margie wasn't that bad before." Most of us turned and gave Marc Lexton, the charity auction director, skeptical looks. He had a good twenty-plus years on me, had been in fandom since forever. "I mean, yes, she's always been a _little_ weird… but it wasn't until Patrice started working for her that she… went nuts."

Cilly nodded. "The first year or two she went to conventions, her requests were tame. No room above the ground floor. Okay, she's acrophobic. She's gotten better, she can make it to the third floor, now. No calls to her room; they just block her number. Also not weird; she's a light sleeper, and she sleeps weird hours. The first convention where she got her reputation—"

"When she almost bankrupted _In_ _the_ _Shadows_ _Con_?" Gary cut in.

Cilly nodded. "That wasn't technically her first con. It was the first con where she went bananas. The champagne, the roses, the coffin, all that crap, the funeral gown—that all started about twenty-five years ago. She didn't go to many cons before that—but she started really going to cons when Patrice started working for her. Personally, I really think _she's_ the cause of Marguerite DuPres being such a fruit loop."

"We could still rewrite the mystery, make her the victim," Rosalie suggested again.

Anne tapped her pursed lips, probably thinking of the amount of rewrite involved. "Tempting. Tempting…"

* * *

 **Thursday  
** **2100**

Early registration closed at eight; the consuite was now a private reception for authors and satellites, pros and hoes—spouses or other family members, assistants, personal attendants, secretaries and the like. And it was open munchies, open bar and open blabbing. If I had looser ethics, I probably could have made a fortune in blackmail. I had to wonder if someone in the room wasn't made of such stern stuff and was busy making copious notes.

My first suspect? Moira Devereaux. I was pretty sure everyone in the room knew her, and anyone with a lick of sense would button their lips around her. _In vino veritas_ , loose lips sink ships—whatever. I kept my conversation to, "Hi, Moira" in passing and a mental note to keep relatively sober just in case. She makes a mean living writing expose articles on minor athletes and entertainers—and when I say 'mean' it's not 'mean' as in 'cheap' or mean as in 'wow, dude, doing great.' I mean 'mean' as in 'mean, nasty, vicious and hurtful.'

And she looks like butter wouldn't melt in her mouth. Straight out of central casting, she plays the part of a modern Southern belle. Muted floral print dresses, necklaces of big beads and pastel high heels; a voice that conjures up magnolia and mint juleps and hoop skirts; big, wide, innocent hazel eyes and waves of pale blonde hair completed the picture. She looks as innocent as a newborn lamb and is as trustworthy as the big, bad wolf.

She had turned those honey hazel eyes on Barry Burgue and publicly outed him in _Behind_ _the_ _Scenes_ magazine a year or so ago. Was it a secret? Not really. But if someone doesn't mention something, they clearly don't want it discussed. Barry was very circumspect about his sex life and his parents were clueless (or obtuse). Whichever, they are _very_ elderly (close to Mother's age) and didn't appreciate the sudden attention. Things in the family and in Barry's little universe had been strained since then, to say the least. And it was 100% Moira's fault, in my opinion.

I was willing to bet it was because of Barry being in _Nightfall_ that Moira was circling the water around Marguerite this evening. But why? I doubted she could do more damage to Barry. As for Marguerite, all her crazy stuff was right out in the open. Anything Moira wanted to add would just sell a few more books and thrill the murky hearts of her fans.

Right now Moira wasn't hunting anyone, she was making coo-goochy-goochy noises at the in-tow infant of a print-on-demand cookbook author. The baby wasn't buying it, going, "Blaah! Ba! BLAAH!" in response (to the vast amusement of those around who felt it was an apt assessment). Suddenly Baby reached up, grabbed the big fat beads around Moira's neck and yanked. Hard.

Cookbook Mama yelped and all three almost fell over. Instead of the necklace tearing apart, beads flying to the four corners of the room (ask me how I thought this would happen, I dare you), Baby was dragging Moira down to her level.

Moira laughed at the ruckus. "Oh, mah, jus' like mah niece, Chloe Belle!" (Good god, the whole family is from a cheap Tennessee Williams knockoff.) "Ah spent _days_ lookin' for all mah pearls! Ah restrung all mah necklaces with triple strings of dental floss!" She flashed her snow-white teeth in an 'I'm a genius' look.

Okay, like stopped clocks, most politicians and Dr. Laura, she could be right twice a day. That was actually a good Hints From Heloise-esque fixit. Credit where credit was due. But just the same, I decided to avoid her as much as possible—and promptly turned around and ran smack into someone I'd never met before. _Literally_ ran into her. "OhmygodI'msosorry!" I gasped.

"No harm, no foul, no blood, no ambulance—and, most importantly, no chocolate spilled."

"I like your priorities."

I didn't recognize her from prior conventions, but that didn't mean anything. She was dead in the middle of average. A little taller than I (who isn't?), a little plump (like I can cast stones), formerly auburn-Titian-ish fading to gray mousy hair in a big bun, dressed in a long, flowing lace skirt and top in a soft cream—with a jolt, I realized she was a dead ringer for Millie, the mother (and retired goddess) of Dianne Wynne Jones' _Chrestomanci_ books. Hmm. Now to find her a Chrestomanci for the costume competition…

She squinted at my badge. "Mallard?" She flipped open her program book. "Do you know… Dr. Donald Mallard?"

"Only if you count married," I laughed.

"Oh, sweet!"

"Yes, he is."

"Oh, no—I mean—no, I'm sure he is," she stammered. I giggled. "I just mean it would be so helpful to have immediate research without wading through crap online, or trying to understand what the dissection textbook means."

"Yep, dinnertime conversation. Trust me—if you don't get enough at the talk, he will _gladly_ sit by the pool and give you more information than you can use for the next _ten_ books." It was my turn to catch her nametag: D. L. Huntington. "You wrote _Chocolate Kiss_!"

She beamed. "You read it!"

"Scared the pee wadding out of me," I admitted. "I almost swore off chocolate." She looked so sweet and mild, I couldn't believe she wrote such a bloody, gruesome book.

" _Almost_ is the important part." She had a fistful of M &Ms and was methodically popping them in her mouth.

"Are you going to write a sequel?"

"You want to skip chocolate again?"

"Could your next serial killer obsess about lima beans?"

She wrinkled her nose. "Nah." She popped a few more M&Ms. "But I _am_ working on a sequel. And would love to pick his brain."

"Bring lots of note pads." I cocked my head. "You've got one helluva murder weapon at your fingertips."

She raised her eyes to follow my glance and laughed at the futility of the gesture. "Ah." She patted the sloppy bun at the back of her head, impaled on a beaded hair stick that looked more like a dagger. "Letter opener," she corrected when I asked. She whipped it out and held it up as her waist-length hair tumbled free. "I'm a big believer in multitasking. This is letter opener, hair stick, ice pick, ice machine un-jammer, peanut butter spreader, cake slicer and mugger repellant."

"Your forgot 'attention getter of the TSA.'"

She looked pained. "Please. Grandma didn't raise no dumb kids." She reconsidered. "Make that 'no dumb girls.' Forgot about my brother." She looked admiringly at the faceted blade. "Yeah, this would make a nifty pig sticker. It's so prosaic, who would think of it as a weapon? Hm—wonder how many geishas were assassins?" She mimed pulling chopsticks from her hair and stabbing with both hands—narrowly missing me with the multitasking weapon of doom. "Oh, my god, I'm so sorry!" she gasped.

Okay. _Now_ I could believe she was the author of a serial killer novel. "No chocolate harmed."

"Cassie, my darling!" An arm was draped over my shoulders and a smooch landed in my hair.

"Hello, Janet. No Mimsy?"

"In this crowd? Forget it. Besides—no hot food buffet, and no fans wanting to take her picture."

"Good point."

"She's up in the suite, Lulu is playing mousie fetch with her, eating pizza and watching movies."

Lulu—Janet's assistant, a relative of some variant (I think), a pleasant if mildly dim woman in her late thirties, had the big plus of being a big cat fan and getting along with all of the Mimsys Janet had had over the years. "Janet, this is—oh. What does D.L. _stand_ for?"

"I _could_ say 'not much' but it's Dixie Lee. Which is why I go by D.L. Who would take a serial killer written by 'Dixie Lee' seriously?" she said, giving her name more beaten biscuits and honey accent than even Moira could pull up.

"Andre Norton was actually Alice," I threw out.

"The Brontë sisters. Jane Austen. Originally published under other names." Janet loves the classics.

"J.K. Rowling," Dixie added. "Not that it stayed a secret for long."

"James Tiptree, Paul Ash, C.L. Moore—" I was cheating. We had done a recent display at the store on s-f authors who were (shhhh) women with male or androgynous pen names.

"Ellis Peters, Alex Kava, Quinn Fawcett—"

"Not fair, that's Chelsea Quinn Yarbro and Bill Fawcett—together," I countered.

"Well, they could just as well have chosen to be Mary Sue Fawcett," Janet said.

Dixie made a face. "I'll concede the point if you choose another name."

"Dixie Lee Fawcett?" Janet got a tongue stuck out at her for that effort.

"Harper Lee."

Janet looked at me. "Seriously? I always knew she was a woman."

"Not when it first went into print. Not until years later."

"Hmmm…"

"Plot bunny?" I teased.

"Maybe…"

Dixie Lee, while a polite reader of Janet's books, was an enthusiastic cat person. The three of us had a cozy ol' time trading cat stories, with frequent input from others passing by. Book people are pet people, and heavily cat people.

"I'm guessing Madame Defarge doesn't have cats." With a nudge of her chin, Janet indicated a lone woman in an armchair, industriously knitting like she was Hermione Granger out to clothe all the house elves of the world. "Mimsy would have a field day."

'Madame Defarge' was moving needles like lightning, scarlet yarn flipping pack and forth. "Who _is_ that?" I asked in an undertone.

She was clearly wearing a participant's badge—bright gold—but those were for authors, assistants and other invited guests. She could be anybody.

"Barbara Bedicker," Janet said promptly. Janet knows _everything_. "Paul's wife. She said he's tired from the drive in—" she snorted faintly. "Thought she mentioned _she_ did the driving. But he's upstairs, sleeping."

Dixie Lee and I made similar 'aaaah' noises. "I'm really surprised he's here," I added. "I was sure his name on Wes's list was a typo."

"He doesn't do conventions?" Dixie Lee asked.

"Not really. But his sales have kind of dropped off, so I'm sure that's why he's here. I'm thinking more about Herman Prendergast _._ " Janet gave a wise nod, but Dixie Lee looked blank. "I don't know the gory details. He worked with Paul, had some sort of breakdown—disappeared for years—they found his body a few weeks ago," I said.

"Suicide?"

I shrugged. "Dunno. But they're dedicating one of the panels to him tomorrow."

"But why are you surprised to see Paul?"

"He's never done conventions before, not that I've heard of—and I heard he really fell apart when Herman disappeared. Herman was his researcher, but also a protégée of sorts."

"He never published, did he?" Janet asked.

"No, not that I know of," I said, shaking my head. "I remember when he disappeared, there was a small interview with Paul in the newspaper—and again when they found his body a month or so ago. Paul said he—Herman—had finished a novel, that it was really good, but it needed some tweaking. He was manic/depressive or something like that, took the publisher's comments really hard that they would want to change his creation—"

Jane nodded. "BTDT. For the first couple, anyway."

"They couldn't legally publish it, so… no. It was never published."

"So he's not on the tombstone."

I shook my head. The tombstone was an annual listing of all the writers who had passed away in the prior year. This convention it started with T.S. Cook, author of _The_ _China_ _Syndrome_ , and ended with Sylvia Browne, the psychic-slash-author. There were nods to literature—Pulitzer winners and poet laureates—and everything in between. Richard Matheson, Andrew Ofutt and Margaret Frazer made me saddest (and Basil Copper and Jesus Franco, a couple of guilty pleasures). Yes, I was sad to see Tom Clancy and Elmore Leonard on the list, and glad that I had met them at Book Expos over the years—but they got front-page coverage when they died. Poor unpublished Herman only rated a 'local news' 2" column, something picked up by several news groups I subscribe to because of P.R. Bedicker's name and the word 'author' as a trigger being mentioned.

"Paul was always kind of odd," I said, bringing myself back to point. "The man published like he was quintuplets, always decent sales, but he never went to Expo or cons or anything that I remember. What?"

Dixie Lee had a faraway look. "Quintuplets…"

"Plot bunny," Janet laughed.

"Not really… Just remembering the Hildebrandts. One brother would start painting at one end of the canvas, the other at the opposite end, they'd meet in the middle… and it would _match_."

I nodded. "I remember them. I fell in love with their work on the Middle Earth calendars that Ballantine put out."

"And those cool college campus posters that Coke?—I think Coke?—published," Janet added.

" _Bilind Date_!" the three of us chorused and burst into giggles.

"I just had this vision of Paul starting a novel, brother number two picking up after a few chapters, three following, so forth," Dixie explained.

"Or all five writing different novels under one name," Janet suggested.

"Would explain how he had two or three out a year in some years. Oh, hey—" I held up a hand. "You heard about the E-Z-Read blow up?" They both shook their heads. "Oh, my gawd. What's her name… Cammie Kelly? Callie Kraft? Kelly Karter? Cs or Ks or a mix. Whatever. She had this _HUGE_ list of e-books, nobody noticed she was publishing two or three a _week_ , or probably figured she was like 'Carolyn Keene,' just a stable name. That was until a writer downloaded a copy of a book that had the same title as hers—"

"You can't copyright titles," Janet interjected.

"Right. But the contents? Totally identical. It was a candy cookbook, but because a few words were different here and there, the legal eagle she talked to said it would be hard to prove plagiarism, even with recipe names like 'Aunt Bitsy's Favorite Maple Cream Cheese Bon Bons' being identical, which I think is total bushwah, she needs to talk to another lawyer. But it made them look harder at what she wrote. She wrote _everything_. Cookbooks, romance, mystery, how to tan leather for heaven's sake. In less than one year, she had published _over_ a hundred and fifty books."

"Oh, _bullshit_ ," Janet snorted. "Nobody can hack out that much, that fast—how many topics?"

"All over the map. So they look a little closer, _everything_ was plagiarized."

A couple of writers on the small couch near us turned around. "Plagiarized?" Kim Pruitt, a struggling poet, looked interested while her couch mate, Penny Rae, looked horrified.

"Puh-lay-ger-ahzed?" I didn't have to turn around to know that Moira had come up behind us. Kim and Penny got the flat, plastic smiles so many of us got around her and quickly turned back, heads together for a private chat. "Did ah heah you correctly? Someone… puh-lay-ger-ahzed—"

"Yep!" I said cheerily. "E-Z-Read, biiiiiig scandal, it hit all the news last night, _everyone_ was reporting on it." Meaning it's already been done to death, so you won't have anything to add. Go bug someone else.

"Oh." Her face fell. "Ah thought…" She gave a die-away sigh. "Nevah mind."

I smiled. No problem 'nevah minding' her; no problem at all.

* * *

 **Friday**

Technology is not always my friend.

With the practice of a hundred or more conventions and events (plus having three assistants and RHIP letting me in at 0600 to set up), we had everything up and ready to sell by open at 1000.

Too bad the cable for the credit card reader didn't work.

It took a half hour of cussing and fighting to realize it was a hardware issue. We had to do sales the old fashioned way—carbon copy two part snap apart forms on a chunk-CHUNK processor I'd had for forever while I begged my contact at the bank to hunt down a new cable.

Cue _Fiddler on the Roof._ Wonder of wonders, miracle of miracles, they had a card reader that had been returned as undeliverable. We muddled through the morning, Cheri and Chanda running the tables, Val running to the bank for the cable, and yours truly running around the convention coordinating autograph sessions large and small and soothing egos left and right.

Val got back just as the dealers room closed at 3:00—and we discovered the cable didn't work with the machine. Fortunately, Val had looked at the new unit and said, "That doesn't look like ours…" and firmly stood her ground that she be allowed to take the whole unit— _just in case_. While I futzed around with the banquet staff rearranging the large autograph room for the Cheese and Whine Party, Valerie sat on the phone with the bank's tech support re-programming the card reader—

—until her battery died.

Poor Val was about to cry from frustration. I told her to go play, we wouldn't be reopening until eight, and I would park my butt on the floor, plug in MY phone and get the card reader up and running.

Well, that was the theory.

Either Val is better at tech troubleshooting or she had a better agent, but I spent _an hour_ resetting the machine. Finally we had the programming for the original company stripped off and I could start reprogramming it with _my_ data.

And I was, literally, on the floor. The table was covered with gift items we had for sale—buttons, bumper stickers, tarot decks, t-shirts and such—and there was barely enough room for the machine, forget the programming manual. So I camped behind the burgundy skirting, trying to get the laptop and the swiper to talk to each other.

Banquet services knew I was playing in my fort and occasionally ducked through the break through wall to check with me on the Cheese and Whine setup. Since the food wouldn't be brought out until the last half hour before open, they didn't mind that people were milling in and out. And just the thing for my indigestion—Patrice Ingram-Ashcraft was parked right by the break through door.

Why wasn't she off demanding someone unroll a red carpet in front of Marguerite DuPres? I didn't know or care. It sounded like she was camped out at the table they had used for Marguerite's autograph session, which made sense, and was spinning tales for an audience—hm, of one. Sounded like—oh, poor Lulu… I shook my head as Patrice wove tales of high grade b.s. laced with malice.

"Sandy?"

I squeaked in surprise and popped up behind the table. "Tim! You're early!"

He shrugged. "Things are slow, I put in for the afternoon off. Wanted to check out the con before things got rolling."

"Got your favorite pen? You're on your lonesome from five to six for autographs, gives you an hour for dinner before the Cheese and Whine party. Ducky should be here soon. You want to join us for dinner?"

He shook his head. "They never end on time even when they lock the door."

"Tell me about it," I muttered.

"And I've got a, uh, date for the Cheese and Whine."

"Oh _reeeeeally_?" He blushed, so I dropped my buttinsky look. "It starts at seven, don't let the hounds keep you too late."

"No, ma'am." (He knows I hate being called ma'am. But I let him get away with it.)

He slipped back through the break through and I went back to my programming nightmare. (D'oh! Idiot! I should have conned Tim into this!) Occasionally Banquet Services would poke in, mostly to make sure I was still there. Two of them tried to come in through the back gangway door; I politely told them the dealer's room was closed and would re-open from eight to eleven. That door was supposed to be _locked_ , were they looking for the Cheese and Whine party setup… next door? They apologized profusely and retreated and I went back to working.

I heard the breakout wall quietly _sssss_ on the rollers and was ready to say that the dealers room was closed, please don't open the—"Oh! Ducky!"

"Hullo, dearest. Valerie was worried you would still be here—"

"Almost done. I should be ready to go to dinner at 5:30…?"

"All right. We can take a turn around the convention, meet you back here?"

We? I leaned out. "Oh! Sorry, didn't see you!"

"Not a problem."

"Dear, this is Dr. Jordan Hampton. She's joining me on the panel tomorrow."

I reached up a hand. "Sorry, kind of trapped down here."

"We heard about the temperamental terminal. No apologies needed."

Dr. Hampton was about my age, maybe a bit younger, with dark hair and sparkling eyes. Sparkling almost as much as the blue-white solitaire on her left hand. It was a clear message: no worries that Ducky might be rekindling this long-ago romance (not that I _had_ any worries). "The three of you are going to handle the panel by yourselves?" Once I had "volunteered" Ducky, Gary Hayes had taken over the arrangements. I only knew Jimmy Palmer was joining them because Ducky had mentioned it at some point.

"Actually, Jimmy suggested Breena join us—for any post-autopsy questions."

"Good idea," I nodded.

"So we have Dr. _and_ Mrs. Palmer joining us. Four should be able to handle it." (When Jimmy got his MD, Ducky was torn. He didn't want to lose his favorite assistant, but he didn't want him to waste his education. Never fear. Jimmy loved working at NCIS and said working with Ducky was like getting a second degree all over again.)

"Family reunion," I quipped. "I see you have your badges—go check the programming, I'm sure I'll be done in a half—that gives us an hour and a half for dinner?"

"Meet you back here." Ducky leaned over and gave me a quick kiss. He's no a big PDA type, so I had to wonder if _he_ wasn't sending a message to Jordan as well.

They left and not-quite-silence sort of descended. There was a low murmur of voices next door—I heard Cilly pop in a few times, the pralines and fried chicken of Moira Devereaux (and was _so_ grateful to be behind the door), the schoolmarm voice of Barbara Bedicker telling her husband what to do (but managing to make it not sound like a direct order) and, through it all…

…PIA and her audience of one.

I was… distracted. Patrice was like Dorothy Parker with more malice and less wit. It didn't matter who wandered by, she had a nasty comment. And there was sweet Lulu, innocently saying, "Gee, I always thought he was nice," and the like. No, Janet's assistant isn't he brightest bulb in the tree, but at least she's pleasant. Why was she sitting with the soul-sucker?

"Oh, please, her only talent is on her knees."

I rolled my eyes and remembered Rosalie Nathan's comments from Thursday night. Yep, I voted Patrice for murder mystery victim. Or the real deal.

 _Shame on you, Cassandra!_ I scolded myself. _What would you do if she got bumped off tonight_?

 _Celebrate,_ my evil half answered.

"You know they found Herman Prendergast last month."

"Yeah, that's so sad. He was nice."

"He was good."

"I thought he was."

"No I mean _good_ , not goody-goody. I did him at Northern Lights."

I made a face. The old filksong, _If You Can't Get Laid at Estrella War, You Might as Well Go Home_ flashed through my head.

"You did everybody at Northern Lights," Lulu said mildly.

I almost choked. I literally clamped my hands over my mouth and stifled laughter until my eyes watered. The night before, Janet had made a noise of disgust when Patrice slithered past us and dropped a tale from several years back: Patrice had had a fling with the husband of a kid-fic author and had left him with, shall we say, the gift that keeps on giving. He had passed it on to his then-pregnant wife who almost lost the pregnancy and delivered way early. It eventually ended well—including a divorce—but it was a hairy time until that point. Here's hoping Pat travels with her own supply of broad-spectrum antibiotics.

But Patrice didn't twitch at Lulu's comment. "Yeah, that was a good con."

 _If_ _you're_ _in_ _Public_ _Health,_ _tracking_ _social_ _diseases_ , _it_ _was_.

"Of course, fiction is even better than fact," Patrice said with a brittle laugh.

"I guess that's why porn is so popular." (I was starting to revise my opinion of Lulu. The dim bulb was getting brighter.)

"Yeah, _50 Shades_ gave me some great ideas—"

Really? I would have thought you'd find it dull and wanted to give the author some pointers.

"—but what I meant was some of the fictional characters are hot. Heathcliffe? Roarke? Peter Decker? _Hot_."

"P.R. Bedicker?" Lulu sounded baffled. I could hear the difference in the pronunciation—just a hair—even if Patrice hadn't.

"Yeah. Peter Decker. You know, Faye Kellerman?"

"Fake Hilllerman?" Lulu cried.

I couldn't fight the grin.

"Yeah," Patrice answered in a 'duh' tone. "What, twenty books?"

"That's awful!"

"Yeah, wish I got a piece of _that_ —" There was a trill of a cell phone. "Uh. My master beckons. See you at Thom's signing." She made a cooing noise. "Wonder if he likes hot tubs… _I'm_ going to soak later, bet I can get him to join me. You can have a _lot_ of fun in a hot tub. He's another one I definitely want to do."

 _And_ _that's_ _another_ _warning I need to give Tim_ , I thought as I cleaned up my mess. I remembered that I had finished the book I had up in the room, and grabbed an old P.R. Bedicker, _Terminal Issue_ —and as an afterthought, a copy of his latest publication, _Gold Country_. It would be interesting to see how his style had changed over the years. I re-set the one bookshelf to better block the pass through and left the dealers' room, firmly shutting the door behind. A couple of steps took me next door to the autograph room that was now being set up for the Cheese and Whine party.

There was a small crowd milling around until the banquet staff would politely kick them out at six to ramp up for the actually food set up. Lulu was looking around frantically and her eyes lit on someone she knew from years of book signings: me. "Sandy! Oh, Sandy, help!"

"What's wrong, Lu?" _Other than a questionable choice of companions._

"It's—it's plagiarism! Or something-ism!" She glanced around and lowered her voice. "P. R. Bedicker, he's doing fake Tony Hillerman novels—!"

"I think that would be fraud or forgery," I said, trying not to smile. I slipped into one of the chairs at her table. "I think there was a misunderstanding. I could hear you talking through the wall. When Patrice said _Peter Decker_ you heard _P. R. Bedicker._ Same with _fake Hillerman._ She was saying _Faye Kellerman_ —the author of the _Peter Decker_ books." She still looked confused. "You ever hear 'Who's on First?'" Confused look became a blank one. "Abbott and Costello—'Who's on first, What's on second, I Dunno—third base!'"

"Oh." She still looked blank.

"It was just a mistake. You misheard what she said. No crime involved, I promise."

Lulu almost pouted. She grabbed her copy of Thom E. Gemcity's latest novel and pushed her chair back. "That's stupid." Brows still furrowed, she left the room, heel taps clicking on the floor.

 _I shall refrain form comment._ I looked at the white-jacketed waitsaff scurrying smoothly in and out of the back door to the kitchen gangway. _Cheese and Whine. How accurate._


	4. Cutting his throat is only a momentary

A/N Lots of visitors. Not a lot of comments. Would appreciate the latter.

* * *

 **Chapter Four**

Cutting his throat is only a momentary pleasure and is bound to get you talked about.  
(Robert Heinlein)

* * *

 _~ ~ ~ ~ ~ LibriCon 2013 ~ ~ ~ ~ ~_

 **Daily Progress Report: Friday Additions**  
 **PANELS**

 _Parsecs And Hectares And Novas And Centons—If You Can't Get The Science Right,  
_ _DON'T USE IT!  
_ _(Panel led by Dr. William Ellern; participants to be announced)_

 _Self-publishing: No Longer "Vanity Press"—Pros and Cons_

 **ANNOUNCEMENTS**

 _Research—Accuracy and What's Enough (or Too Much)  
_ _will be dedicated to the memory of Herman Prendergast_

* * *

 **Friday**

I was still sitting in the Georgian Room when Ducky and Dr. Hampton returned. Keith Williams had wandered by and I had let him know we had an issue with the gangway access. The dealers' room had thousands of dollars of merchandise, the room _had_ to be secure… With a tiny growl he stepped aside to use his walkie-talkie that connected directly to hotel security. Sometimes I think he takes his con persona of Korb the Ruthless, leader of the Klingon Diplomatic Corps, just a _shade_ too seriously. But he was in charge of Tim's autograph setup; I could trust him without question (and could go to dinner without rushing back).

"The art show is small, but the quality is excellent," Ducky said while we headed to Filene's. "I'd estimate half is science fiction and fantasy, a third mystery and the final sixth, miscellaneous."

"There was a wonderful painting, a collection of Holmes and Watson scenes—Rathbone and Bruce. Downey and Law. Cumberbatch and Freeman," Jordan added. "It's already up to two-thirty-five, it started at fifty dollars!"

I knew that tone. "What did you bid?"

"Two-fifty." Yep. I was right.

"We passed on the panel on on-demand publishing and the reading by Carole Tanner. We stopped by the panel on research techniques—" Ducky exchanged an uncomfortable look with Jordan.

Great. Now what? "What happened?"

"Well, the panel was in honor of a researcher, assistant to P. R. Bedicker—Herman something—" Jordan fished in her purse for her convention program. "Herman Prendergast."

"The panel was running quite well, discussing accuracy in research. Don't blindly trust the internet, check your sources. Someone asked Mr. Bedicker about Herman's body being discovered and he—rather fell apart," Ducky filled in. "He said poor Herman had been like a younger brother to him all those years, finding out that he was dead, not just missing, just—devastated him."

"It quickly digressed into 'how did he die, what happened'—and, frankly, I get enough of that at work. And it would steal the thunder from _our_ panels." I like Jordan. She's pragmatic.

"The poor man was in tears. His wife had to take him up to their room, and it became a gossipfest free-for-all."

"Wow." He hadn't even come to the consuite the night before. His wife had picked up their badges and packets, sat for a while knitting and chatting with anyone who was willing to stop by then went back upstairs to her husband. I was starting to wonder why he hadn't just canceled—but I was so desperate for authors, I was glad he hadn't.

"I'm glad I took a room for the weekend." Jordan dug in her purse again and pulled out the lime green film room schedule. "I have plans for midnight! Right now they're running _Clue_ , followed by _Murder by Death_ —"

"Interesting double feature," I said.

"Then _Murder Can Hurt You_ —"

I made a face. "God, that was _awful_. It could have been so good, too."

"But the midnight show is a special favorite of mine, I thought I was the _only_ person who even knew about it. _American Dreamer._ "

"I _love_ that movie!" I almost clapped my hands.

Jordan looked delighted. "You've _seen_ it! _Nobody_ I know has seen it!"

We both looked at Ducky. "I confess, I've never heard of it."

"I have Beta, VHS _and_ DVD, how have you missed it on the shelf?"

"It's _wonderful_ ," Jordan enthused. "This poor housewife—JoBeth Williams, _Poltergeist_? She has a boring, mundane husband, boring, mundane life—"

"She loves this series of romantic thrillers—"

"—the Rebecca Ryan books—"

"—she enters a writing contest—"

"—wins a trip to Paris—"

"—suffers a concussion, thinks she _is_ Rebecca Ryan—" I broke off. "I don't want to ruin it for you. But she ends up in the middle of a murder mystery for real. It's _great._ "

Ducky smiled tolerantly. "It sounds delightful."

Jordan leaned around him. "Midnight?"

I nodded. "It's a date."

Over dinner we exchanged semi-idle chit-chat. Plenty of Lexi stories, with Jordan gushing over how cute she was, how bright she sounded, and all the pictures 'Donnie' had were just precious, so on, so forth. Brag on my kid. Go ahead. I won't stop you.

"I was always quite a bookworm as a child. If _my_ mother had been a bookstore owner, I would have been in seventh heaven."

"Oh, she is," I agreed. "She helps out at the store, takes home stacks of books—right now she's a demon for the Ramona Quimby books—" My brain did a cascade moment—Ramona Quimby/dawnzer/Lulu. "Oh, I had a silly moment right before you came back. Lulu was sitting in the autograph room talking with Patrice Ingram-Ashcraft." Ducky recognized the names, but Jordan looked blank. I identified the players and related the Peter Decker/P.R. Bedicker/Faye Kellerman/fake Hillerman mixup. "I think Lulu is _still_ lost."

"Who's on first," Jordan agreed with a grin.

"What's on second," Ducky threw out.

"I Dunno," I added. "Third base!" we chorused, laughing. I caught sight of the clock and my laugh became a gasp. "Oh, _crap_ I'm going to be late!"

Ducky waved a hand. "I'll take your dessert up to our room and meet you back downstairs."

"Thank you!" I yelped, hurrying from the table. I dashed back, dropped my books next to his plate, smooched his cheek and added another "Thanks!" before running for the door.

I screeched to the door of Georgian room with ten minutes to spare. There were fifty or more people already milling on the grass, waiting for the magic hour. My red concom badge got me in and I made a lightspeed inspection of the room. Everything was perfect and well ordered, Millennium norm. The hot hors d'oeuvres smelled wonderful (so much for being full from dinner), the cold hors d'oeuvres were works of art, the platters of cheese and fruit looked very appealing. The waitstaff—in black and white with trademark Millennium maroon and silver accents—stood in a neat row, silent, hands folded, faces inscrutable. Security (not Korb; two of his more civilized cohorts, 'Silent Cal' and Cilly's eldest son, John (who, taking after his mom, calls himself Jonathing)) flanked the double doors, ready to check for wristbands. Green: go (wine allowed). Red: stop (you like grape juice?). No wristband, no entry—not even for invited guests.

Seven o'clock arrived. Security opened the doors and people started slowly streaming in. Adrian Collier, Lana King—"Caroline!" Vivian Austin's granddaughter was close to 40 and had been attending the convention since she was about 7. Part of me still thought of her as a little kid. "I didn't see you last night, where were you?" We stepped away from the door and exchanged hugs and squeals.

"My flight was late, missed my connection, had to overnight it in Omaha. I still don't understand being routed through Omaha… but here I am. Where's the booze?"

Laughing, I grabbed her wrist and made a show of checking her wristband. "Are you _sure_ you're legal?"

"Ha-ha, watch me laugh, get me a glass before I go Hulk Smash on this place." Yeah, right. She's 5'2" if she wears heels, _maybe_ 90 pounds dripping wet and could still pass for a high school senior most days. Hulk Smash my ass. I turned her around and pushed her in the general direction of the wine table, lemon verbena wafting back as she headed away.

P. R. and Barbara Bedicker walked past; he looked shaky, probably still rattled from the panel earlier. She, on the other hand, had her usual placid look (which was fine, he was edgy enough for both of them). I greeted them politely and indicated the different stations. She got him settled at a table—brought him some food, had some quiet words with a firm, schoolmarmish look, gave him the stare I probably have when telling Lexi, 'Behave yourself,' when leaving her on her own to play—then left the room. Moira Devereaux was moments behind them (probably looking for someone with a limber elbow), followed by Janet and—"Mimsy!" I leaned over Janet's left elbow, draped in a maroon caftan and decorated with a drowsing black cat. "How is the itty-bitty-pretty-kitty?" She blinked at my idiotic babble. "She okay?"

"The doctor has her on a mild sedative to try to help her digestion. She just had a dose. I had the chicken kebabs at dinner last night. She really liked them, and I heard they were on the menu for the party—is it okay?"

"She's a guest." There was a badge pinned to her harness. "She's allowed. Where's Lu?"

"I think she was going to Thom Gemcity's autograph session—how did you get _him_ to come to the con? He's actually on best seller lists."

"Family friend."

"Ah." Janet thought for a moment. "She was running up to the film room, I think, said she would be here after the opening crush. Haven't seen her since lunch, actually, that's what she said then."

"I have. I'll share it with you later." Janet gave me a thumb up and hurried to the tables and grabbed a plate of hors d'oeuvres and samples of at least three wines, the first of many. Thank god she wasn't driving.

Ducky and Jordan had run into Tim and his date—a peppy young woman named Maxine ("Max," she corrected with a grin) and they all arrived in a clump. I barely had time to meet Max; she apologized that she was only going to have time to stay for a half hour at the most but was looking forward to returning the next day.

I took evil glee in a late arrival. Todd Clarke looks like a Harvard business grad—which he is. He looks like the scion of a socially prominent, wealthy family—which he is. He does _not_ look like a sixth level conspiracy nutjob who needs a keeper—which he is. He is also a vaguely related cousin of Marguerite DuPres (and she likes him) and tags along to most of the conventions she goes to.

Todd is brilliant and interesting—just keep him off of things like alien invasions. 9/11. Moon landings. The president is secretly a lizard. (Don't ask. I was foolish enough to do so a year or two back and ended up with a killer migraine.) He doesn't slaver and babble and doesn't wear an X-Men Magneto football helmet. He's basically a nice guy, just fruity as a nutcake.

And Moira Devereaux was heading his way.

I giggled to myself and grabbed some water crackers and cheese and a glass of zinfandel. Showtime!

* * *

I kept a weather eye on Mimsy, who was working on her second chicken kebab. Janet had admitted that despite the new medication, Mimsy had decorated the bedspread earlier; Ducky's shoes and Geoff's jacket would feel less picked-on, but the last thing I needed was a cat barfing in the middle of the reception.

Moira had spent most of the first half-hour tucked at a table with Todd Clarke. The first ten minutes or so she was clearly asking questions and getting some sort of answers. After that, he was doing all the talking and she could… not… get… away. My heart bled chunky peanut butter for her.

Dixie Lee wandered up to join me, loaded plate carefully balanced on her palm and wrist, wine glass between her fingers, while she used her right hand to nibble and sip. "Waitress. Twenty-three years," she said cheerfully in response to my glance. Ah.

"Love the hair stick."

"Yep. Another weapon." This letter opener was quite elaborate. The end was a long, tapered teardrop with a trail of peacock feathers and beads trailing through her semi-tumbled curls; the rounded tip was about the diameter of a nickel and the whole end of the shaft encrusted with tiny jet and gunmetal rhinestones. "My daughter makes them. My husband loves to go to storage locker auctions. There was a whole box of hair sticks—well, letter openers. A couple of gross. Kate went crazy with Fimo and ribbon and rhinestones and beads. She has a table in the dealers' room."

"Really?" My attention perked up.

"Hair sticks, fans, reticules and masks. She has half the table. A friend of hers took the other half—vintage necklaces, earrings and such."

"They take credit cards?" I asked flippantly, remembering my technical hassles.

"Yep!"

"There go my profits…"

I continued to circulate. P. R. Bedicker was parked in a far corner, methodically eating everything in sight and slugging down glass after glass of wine. Glad _he_ wasn't driving home, either. While his fans didn't linger and chat the way Janet's did, they _did_ stop by for a few words and an autograph—and he looked so grateful it made me a little sad. He was a talented writer—I could name a dozen books I'd enjoyed, without straining for titles—but he was socially awkward. I made a note to make sure to read his newer book tonight, rather than my old favorite; authors like to hear you like their new stuff, not just the old. I gave him what I hoped was an encouraging smile and got a surprise, a warm one in return. A _very_ warm one. He had a nice little buzz going on.

Which did not sit well with his keeper. She had returned at some point and was at the wine table. Looking so much like a 1930s schoolmarm with her middy blouse, below calf length skirt and matching jacket, hair scraped into a severe bun (and without Dixie Lee's interesting hair stick), the clunkiest shoes this side of orthopedics—she was selecting a glass of (shudder) sweet sherry. She caught sight of Paul and her lips tightened. She trod over, ever-present knitting bag pressed against her side. I beat a hasty retreat.

Marguerite DuPres was having a pleasant chat with one of her fans. He said something amusing and she laughed; I couldn't help but smile. When she laughed, her whole being changed. She has a very pretty smile; it just never seems to come out. I found it hysterical that the author of a pretty good vampire saga was wolfing down garlic cheese twists like they were going out of style. She looked my way and her smile faded and disappeared. Before I could wonder if our relationship was _that_ bad, Patrice swept by me and strutted over to the table. There was a split-second look in Marguerite's eyes before her gaze dropped to the table.

A split second of hate.

 _If you don't like the bitch, fire her!_ I had a sudden vision of Patrice and Lulu changing places. Lulu isn't a genius. But she's pleasant, and would make a nice change of pace for Marguerite. And Patrice? Janet would chew her to pieces and pick her teeth with the bone shards. I would happily sell tickets.

I glanced at my wristwatch; the dealer's room was due to re-open at eight, in the middle of the reception—only fifteen minutes away. I swept the room for Valerie, and my eyes caught the break out door behind my table spot—and froze.

The door was ajar.

Calm down. It's probably just not latched all the way. Everything is fine.  
(What if it's not?)  
Oh, craaaaaap.  
(Never, ever agree to work another con.)

Cilly was across the room, chatting with her favorite fantasy author; I caught her eye, gave her a serious look and a tiny "come here, please" chin jerk. She made a polite farewell and casually walked over. "Something up?"

I gave another tiny nod toward the wall. "Pass through isn't shut. It was when we opened."

She shrugged. "Not much. Probably just off track."

"Probably. But…"

" **But**. Dealers' room opens in a few. We can take a quick look through." I followed her out the door and around the pillar to the Renaissance door. Keith/Korb was just coming up to open the door; Cilly let him know what the situation was. None of the dealers were champing at the bit to come in—most were still next-door or at dinner—so he unlocked the door, we walked in, and he shut the door firmly behind us.

Lights went on. Nobody home. The bookcase that blocked the pass through was still solidly in place; the panel had just slipped off track. It happens. We put it back on track, shut it hard and made a quick walk around the room; if anyone had gotten in and stolen anything, they were the neatest burglars in town.

"Wait." I grabbed Cilly's arm. The pass through to the next suite, Regency A/B, was also askew just a hair. We exchanged a look. "Better be thorough," I sighed.

The pass through slid back easily, and the tables were still in front of it. There were still a few scattered bookmarks advertising Tim's—sorry, Thom's book—left over from his autograph session. "Anything?" Cilly asked behind me.

"Nothing that I can—" The dim light from overhead caught something shiny about ten feet across the way. "Hang on." I pushed the panel far enough that I could squeeze past the table. Halfway across the room, I stopped. Like a scene out of The Bad Seed, the light was glinting off the shiny silver taps on the bottom of the heel of a shoe. The only person I personally knew of who used such old fashioned, sensible economy measures… there had to be more than one person in the hotel, right? Maybe, but it was still the person I wished I weren't. It only took a glance to see that Lulu had departed this mortal coil. If the blank stare and slack mouth weren't enough, the blood-soaked blouse was the defining clue.

"Cassie?"

"Oh, Lu," I sighed. I stepped backwards, careful to retrace my steps. "There's been—" I reconsidered. "There's been an accident." Cilly clapped a hand over her mouth in shock. "Lulu."

"She's hurt—"

I shook my head. "Dead," I said quietly.

Tears sprang to her eyes. "I'll get Janet—"

I stopped her. "Not yet."

She gave me an odd look. "Why?" I didn't answer. "You—you don't think it was an accident. Do you." It wasn't a question.

Instead I leaned past her. "Korb? Could you please get my husband, Dr. Hampton and Mr. Gemcity and bring them here? Quietly, please."

He's a fan but he's not an idiot. "Keith will go over, not Korb."

"Thanks."

I turned back and pulled out my cell phone. As I hit the speed dial for Security, I couldn't help thinking, _Mrs. Islington is going to kill me_. I shuddered _. Ugh. Bad choice._


	5. We're not alcoholics We're authors

**Chapter Five**

We're not alcoholics. We're authors.

* * *

 _~ ~ ~ ~ ~ LibriCon 2014 ~ ~ ~ ~ ~_

 _ **Daily Progress Report: Friday Additions** _  
_**PANELS**_

 _Police Procedurals: Passé or Popular?_

 _Writing Unlikeable Characters_

 _Movie Rights (And Really, Really Wrongs)_

* * *

 **Friday**

While I was on the phone with Jim Rubio, Cilly stationed herself outside in the hall to gently deflect any dealers. I stayed by the break through door and kept a weather eye on Lulu's unmoving form wondering why anyone would have felt the need to kill such a harmless, basically nice (if a little vacuous) person.

Keith was back in a flash with Ducky, Jordan and Tim in his wake. They had the advantage of being right next-door; I barely started explaining what had happened when the head of hotel security arrived. He must have teleported or shattered the record for the indoor dash, but not a hair was out of place and he looked totally unruffled. "Mrs. Mallard. Dr. Mallard."

"Mr. Rubio." They shook hands and Ducky indicated Jordan. "My colleague, Dr. Hampton; and you remember Agent McGee from NCIS."

Rubio frowned faintly. "Is this NCIS-related?"

Ducky shrugged. "We just arrived; I haven't even viewed the body."

"Please."

I moved the pass through wider so they could get through; it only took a second to determine that Lulu was definitely not with us any longer. Ducky gave Tim a meaningful glance and a tiny head jerk. Tim carefully stepped over, looked where Ducky indicated and pursed his lips. Pulling out his phone, he gave Mr. Rubio a neutral look. "Have you called Metro PD?"

"I was about to."

McGee shook his head. "Gibbs will say this is NCIS jurisdiction."

My eyes widened. NCIS? What would Lulu have to do with NCIS?

"Boss, we have a… situation." McGee listened for a moment. "I'm not sure, but it may be something similar to the Landon Grey case—"

Landon Grey, Landon Grey…the name was oh-so-vaguely familiar. But, then, I'd heard so many cases over the years…

"Victim—" McGee stopped and looked at me.

"Lulu. Short for Louise, I think." I stopped and thought hard. "This is embarrassing, I don't think I can remember her full name. Should I get Janet?" McGee cocked his head. "Her boss, she's Janet's PA."

McGee shook his head. "No, Boss. Victim—Lulu, possibly Louise, working on last name—was holding a copy of _Lying in State_ —" He broke off and looked chagrined. "Yeah. And there are—" He glanced around the room. "Lots of possibilities."

I could fill in the subtext and missing parts. _"Any suspects?" "Boss, I'm at a convention. I'm armpit deep in suspects by virtue of their lack of sanity. You want a list alphabetically, geographically, chronologically or by DSM diagnosis?"_

"Two medical examiners?" I jumped at the sound of Mrs. Islington's voice behind me. "How… convenient." She looked mildly pained, like her shoes pinched.

"There's a link to NCIS—" Mr. Rubio lifted an eyebrow; he clearly still had no clue _how_ it linked to NCIS. "—so they have requested jurisdiction."

(No, Gibbs is _taking_ jurisdiction.)

Mrs. Islington's face cleared. NCIS she knows, NCIS she likes.

At her obvious relief, Mr. Rubio looked a lot more sanguine about the situation. Seven years ago he had worked with Gibbs and company for a very short time and had gotten along quite well with them—and been very grateful that the case was closed quickly (hell, Ducky had figured out the perp; at the time, Mr. Rubio was ready to throw NCIS a parade). But NCIS wouldn't have been his normal pick for investigation of a crime at 'his' hotel; with Mrs. Islington signaling approval, things were back on a more even keel.

"They'll be here in about ten minutes. Twenty for the wagon," McGee said. I felt guilty for my smile. "Yeah, Ziva is driving the van, Gibbs is driving a fleet car. Dr. Parrish and Kelly Thomas are covering for Ducky and Jimmy. Dr. Parrish is—a bit more conservative of a driver than Gibbs."

"Evel Knievel is a more conservative driver than Gibbs," I muttered. McGee stifled a laugh. "Tim—" I kept my voice low. "Who is Landon Grey? It's so familiar, but I can't—"

He dropped his voice as well. "It was back in oh-seven. Landon Grey… was a barista at the coffeehouse I went to. Short version—he got his hands on my work in progress and killed two people because of his obsession with my writing. He threatened Abby, it—" He shook his head. "You ever read Stephen King's story, _I Know What You Need_?"

"Sure. The girl who's stalked by this guy who anticipates her every need—"

He nodded. "Right. We had a case like that once. A guy who was so obsessed with this supply clerk, he killed three people he thought were being disrespectful to her or standing in the way of her career. The fact that this guy killed people just because she had said something like 'Oh, I'm so pissed about George, he was late with his report and I ended up looking bad' or whatever—she darn near had a breakdown over her guilt about it. Even though she had nothing to do with it. It wasn't her fault. When Landon Grey—" He looked past me to where Lulu's body lay. "Seeing my book in her hands—"

I nodded. "Got it. Got it. I… totally understand." Out of the corner of my eye I saw Cilly slip in the dealers' room door and shut it firmly behind her. "Be right back."

"We have got some _un_ happy people," Cilly sighed. "They were banking on sales after the Cheese and Whine—wine loosening up the purse strings. We need to put out a sign or something."

I nodded my head towards the Regency A/B room. "And move Davida Quint's work in progress reading," I added.

"Oh, _crap_." Cilly puffed out tiny breaths making little "puh-puh-puh" noises, her first-to-fifth-gear noise. "We'll move it to Penzance, around the corner from registration. The panel on linguistics and creating believable languages will be over soon, I'll have Johnno let them know to move any hangers-on to the little lobby."

"I'll do up signs—"

"John and I will take care of the main tower, you cover here?" she suggested.

"Works for me."

"Back in a flash." With a heavy sigh, she slipped back out of the room; I could hear voices clamoring outside. I didn't look forward to walking out into the teeming masses myself.

I grabbed the white board easel that got stashed by my table during closed hours. On one side I wrote _**DEALERS' ROOM CLOSED DUE TO UNFORSEEN CIRCUMSTANCES. WE REGRET ANY INCONVENIENCE. PLEASE CHECK BACK FOR STATUS UPDATES.**_ On the other, _**DIVIDA QUINT WIP READING MOVED TO PENZANCE MEETING ROOM. SORRY FOR THE LAST MINUTE CHANGE.**_ Keith helped me move it to the walkway where people from either side could see it. I was immediately assaulted from all directions by dealers and attendees.

"What's going on?"  
"Was there a break in?"  
"There was a break in?!"  
"That's what I heard. Who got hit?"  
"I gotta check my merchandise!"  
"When will we be able to get in?"

I answered the last first. "If we can reopen tonight, we'll make an announcement. Otherwise, plan on eight in the morning." A couple of dealers started to ask further questions; my hairy eyeball of doom (aka 'mom look') made them snap their yaps, mutter, "Thanks," and slink off. "No, there has _not_ been a break in," I continued. "We just have an operations issue that requires the Regency and Renaissance to be closed for the evening. I'm _very_ sorry for the inconvenience. Believe me, this was _totally_ unplanned—" (And how!) "—and if we could have the rooms open, we would."

If you can fake sincerity, you can sell anything to anyone. Most people were satisfied. "Whaddya got in there? A body?" one voice heckled.

I didn't hesitate. "You volunteering?"

That got enough laughs that the mob mentality broke up. So did the mob. Just to be on the safe side, I told Keith he was to stay glued to the two doors and that Gibbs and a couple of agents and yet _another_ medical examiner would be arriving shortly. "Since we're not sure how the… person of interest entered the room, I'll let them decide the way they want in," he said.

Redshirts have the reputation of being stupid and therefore nonessential. (One of my first buttons from a con read, _I'm not stupid, I'm not expendable, I'M NOT GOING!_ ) That's only on TV and in movies. In the world of conventions, security and gofers are often brighter than some of the concom—sometimes all of the concom. Keith has fun running his Korb the Ruthless character mostly because he likes the lamé mesh from the original _Star Trek_ Klingon uniforms. In the real world, he works at NIS with Cilly's husband. He's an electrical engineer with the tidy, logical mind of one, perfect for this situation.

I started to turn back into the dealers' room when I caught sight of a familiar figure striding down the walkway: Gibbs. I checked my cell phone; just over nine minutes. Not bad. Maybe they had been nearby? (I found out later that, no, they had been combing cold cases and Gibbs had almost raced the elevator to get out of the building.)

"McGee?"

"He's inside." I kept my voice quiet. "Not sure how they gained entry. We have a breakaway wall between the rooms that was ajar. The hallway doors were locked to both rooms when we came in, but that doesn't mean they were at, uh, at the time."

A few people had hung around and were looking at Gibbs (imposing as only he can be) in his NCIS marked jacket. They weren't close by, so they couldn't hear us; for all they knew, he was going to be a participant in a panel tomorrow.

Ziva and Tony, both toting equipment, were coming down the hall (almost two minutes behind Gibbs; Ziva drives like Gibbs, it must have been the additional time to pull things from the van). "Prints, Boss?" Tony asked.

"When the rooms are in use, are the doors open? Or just unlocked?"

"Panel room is unlocked so the outside noise doesn't come in—or the inside noise go out. The dealers' room has both doors wide open." I flicked my eyes toward the Regency A/B. "That's where…"

He nodded. "How many people through here today?"

"We've had, jeez, half a dozen panels and as many autograph sessions. Same people would have gone to several things but if you're looking at a number count for people in and out, not individual names—" He nodded. "Four thousand? Five?"

He looked mildly disgusted. "Probably worthless, but—" Shrugging, he put on a pair of gloves and took the keycard I held out.

"Hey, hey, wait—wait—you said there wasn't a break in—" It was one of the dealers from earlier, still hanging around.

"There wasn't," I said briefly.

"But—" He pointed to Gibbs' gloved hands.

"He's a clean freak."

"I'm not an idiot. NCIS? That's like CSI." I heard a stifled groan from Tony.

I locked my eyes on the dealer's face. "I assure you," I said in a steely tone. "There. Has. NOT. Been. A break in."

"But—"

"We have an operations issue necessitating the temporary closure of these rooms," I said robotically.

He narrowed his eyes. "My system is updating."

Tech support code for 'my computer just crashed, I have to tap dance until I can help you.' "Close enough. When we have information, we'll post it."

With a mildly suspicious look, he nodded slowly and stepped back into the small crowd that was still hovering.

"Nice job," Gibbs muttered, opening the door.

"I thought about saying there had been an accident, but like the game telephone it would have turned into a satanic ritual sacrifice with a dozen bodies before it went five people out."

"Probably right." He swung open the door and kicked down the doorstop. "DiNozzo." He nodded toward the handle. "Ziver, shoot and sketch." He went inside and I followed him. He made a brief re-acquaintance exchange with Mrs. Islington and Mr. Rubio who quietly stood back and let Gibbs do his Gibbs-thing. "What happened?"

I've known Gibbs for a long time and know he doesn't like a lot of extraneous crap with his reporting. I gave him a succinct but detailed enough rundown of the past forty-five minutes. He nodded, made copious notes on his spiral notepad and communicated telepathically with Ziva as she silently scoured the room and took dozens of pictures.

Next stop, scene of the crime. "Whatcha got, Duck—uh, doctors?"

I hadn't been given permission to stay—but I wasn't _told_ to leave… Silence gives assent, so I stuck around.

"Multiple stab wounds, three, possibly four," Ducky said. "Does not appear to be a knife—the instrument is round, like a screwdriver or a rod, and there are jagged tears in her blouse…"

I shouldn't have stayed. It's one thing to listen to Ducky talk about anonymous victims; this was Lulu. I had _known_ her, known her for years—

My head jerked up when Gibbs snapped his fingers by my ear. "You okay… Mrs. Mallard?"

I managed a smile; the 'Mrs.' is his tease to me. "Yeah. Sorry. It just kind of—hit me."

"Why don't you wait—" He raised an eyebrow.

I turned and looked where his eye had been caught. Cilly was slipping in through the breakthrough wall. "Oh, Gibbs, this is Cecilia Ting. She's the convention chairman. Cilly, this is Special Agent Gibbs, NCIS."

"Ma'am." As they shook hands, DiNozzo came up and gave his fearless leader a negative shake of the head: the doorknobs had been a wash. "Agent DiNozzo will take your statement."

DiNozzo took her aside and McGee came up in his wake. "Easy access, Boss. Perp could have come in through the breakthrough wall. But he—or she—would have had to come through the room on the other side—someone would have noticed them going in from the Georgian Room—"

"—and my tables are right behind, they would have had to shove all my bookcases around," I added.

McGee nodded. "But there's a gangway behind this whole bank of rooms with locked doors leading to each section. The door to the hucksters' room—" Gibbs gave him a 'WTF?' look. "Ah, dealers' room, boss, people selling books—" He nodded my way. "—jewelry, collectibles, all sorts of—the door was locked," he switched in midstream at Gibbs' glare. "But the access door to _this_ room was unlocked and ajar."

Jim Rubio closed his eyes for a moment but said nothing. He didn't need to. Someone's ass was grass and he was going to be the lawnmower.

It was easy to understand. If you can gain access to one room, you could scuttle from room to room. Depending on the event, the liability could be in the millions.

"Gibbs."

Ziva can say a lot with one word. He caught up with her at the access door; they had a short confab then he brought a large plastic evidence bag over to Ducky and Jordan. "Well, I can't say for _certain_ …" Ducky hedged.

"Gets my vote," Jordan said.

Rubio is on the same psychic network. He joined Gibbs, glanced at the bagged item and gave a tiny headshake. "Mrs. Islington?"

The formality of a crime scene; no first names. She joined the boys club and nodded once. "Yes. That's from our kitchen. It is, I believe, a corer or injector used to remove part of a fruit or vegetable or to inject flavorings." She gave a faint smile. "I'm not much of a chef…"

I am. And so is Ducky, more so. Professional grade, tooth-edged corer? Yeah, that would make a freaking good weapon, along the lines of _Friday the 13th_ or _Halloween_. Cue the screeching violin _**eee-eee-eee**_ _Psycho_ theme.

"Would non-staff have access to the kitchen?" Gibbs asked.

"Not _easily_ ," Mrs. Islington said.

I had a sudden memory of years ago, Mr. Rubio escorting me through the kitchen to avoid a mob of press and paparazzi. "But… not impossible," Mr. Rubio finished.

Great.

There was a sudden hubbub outside in the hall. It was explained by the entrance of Dr. Parrish and Kelly Thomas with a gurney. Can't hide something like that; the looky-loos were in high gear.

The three doctors conferred for a bit, and then Lulu was loaded on the gurney.

"Janet!" I gasped.

"Who?" Gibbs asked.

"Lulu's—" I was stumped. "Well, her employer, for sure. But I think they're related, too."

"You know her?"

"For years."

"Can you get her in here? Quietly?"

"I can try," I said honestly, thinking of the babbling mob outside.

He nodded toward the breakthrough wall. "Already a security bust, may as well avoid the crowd."

Cilly looked sick at the idea; not that you have to be a rocket scientist to figure out the walls aren't solid, but it's not something you want to advertise.

I slipped through the one wall, flitted across the room, dragged a bookcase away from the other wall and tried to unobtrusively manhandle the panel off track. Cilly and I had done a good job of securing it earlier.

Nobody even blinked when I poked my head in—mostly because their eyes were too bleary to blink. A lot of the partygoers were more than three sheets to the wind (and that fourth one was pretty iffy). I would have had to appear in a shower of fireworks proclaiming myself the Dread Pirate Roberts to even get a twitch.

Fortunately, Janet was sitting right inside the opening. I whispered "c'm'ere" several times before she finally heard me. With a baffled look, she came over. "What? Secret meeting of the Assassins Guild?"

I flinched. "Um…" I motioned her inside and waited until the panel was shoved back in place and the bookcase set back. "There's—been an accident."

She's not a mystery writer for nothing. "Who's dead?"

"Aaaah… Lulu." I sighed. "Lulu's… dead."

"Holy shit. What happened?"

While it was pretty obvious what had happened, I didn't _witness_ it—and I was sure Gibbs wanted to keep the details quiet, so… I shrugged.

Janet, Mimsy snuggled in her arms, followed me through the room. "I feel like a sneak thief."

"Don't say that in front of Cilly."

As I got to the wall panel, I heard Mr. Rubio say, "The front desk has been alerted, and anyone checking out will be cleared through me."

"Good. I have a feeling—"

And I know all about Gibbs' feelings. Oy. They broke off when we entered the room. "Special Agent Gibbs, this is Janet Bascom. She's Lulu's—" I stumbled. "Sister… in… law?" I said hesitantly.

"Ex," Janet said with a kind of inappropriate grin. She mitigated this by adding, "She may have been a fluffhead, but she tried hard and she was the best of the family. At least she wasn't a psych—"

Bad path. She snapped her mouth shut, blushed (a first to my knowledge) and held Mimsy closer. From Gibbs' careful look anywhere _but_ Mimsy, I knew he had noticed her. "DiNozzo."

He had finished with Cilly's statement and turned his smile on Janet. "Special Agent Anthony DiNozzo, NCIS. Your full name please?"

"What in the world does the Naval Criminal Investigative Services have to do with this?" At his surprise, she said archly, "I've come across it in my research."

"May I have your name, please?" DiNozzo ignored the question and the comment.

"Janet Marie Bascom."

"Your relationship to the deceased?"

"Familial? My ex-husband's youngest sister, the only non-dead loss in the family." I grimaced at the choice of words. "Sorry—but it's true. Financially, my assistant for the past… twenty-three years." She saw my surprise. "She started off just helping out after school. She was in junior high, I believe." Okay, that made sense.

"When was the last time you saw her?"

"Lunchtime. I expected her to be at the Cheese and Whine party but… well…" She looked uncomfortable. She hadn't shown up—and now we knew why.

"How was your relationship with her?"

Janet laughed. "Sometimes she made me crazy. The girl thought Rhode Island was by St. Thomas! When we watched Apollo 13, she was thrilled that they made it back alive; she was beside herself with suspense. I caught her talking to tech support one time. They asked her to click any key and she asked which one was the any key." I was wondering how much was truth and how much was nerves.

"Do you know why anyone would want to kill her? "

"You never drank her coffee. That's why I switched to tea."

He gave her an unsmiling look. "That's rather cold."

"It's my defense mechanism." I rolled my eyes; I'm not the only fan of _Clue._ "She could be…difficult."

"Bitchy?"

"No, that would take too much effort."

"Why keep her around?" It was almost an offhand comment.

"Nepotism." Janet shrugged. "It took me long enough to train her right. I didn't want to go through THAT again."

"Looks like you're out of luck." I could barely hear Gibbs mutter behind me; I doubted Janet or DiNozzo did.

Still looking at his notepad, Tony casually said, "You didn't knock her off, did you?"

I could feel Gibbs' glare shooting past me: _Miranda?_

Janet was still so rattled she was in sarcasm mode and didn't even think like a mystery writer with 22 books under her belt. "Over bad coffee?"

Tony shrugged. "Maybe she was the one who wrote the books, you were her front—"

"My dear boy—" Oh, lordy, now she was channeling her inner Nanny. "—I _never_ re-use a plot. That was from _Writer's_ _Block_ —and it was much more believable than your scenario. A creative writing instructor uses the ideas of a student and is then accused of plagiarism by the author from whom the student stole the stories."

I remembered the book. It's one of my favorites of her books.

"As dear as she was, and even though she made the _perfect_ cup of tea, Lulu was not the sharpest taco on the tree."

DiNozzo stopped in mid-nod. "Hunh?"

"Knife in the drawer, missing tacos from the combo plate, bulb on the tree—not to speak ill of the dead, but sometimes she was as dumb as a post. She couldn't write her way out of a wet paper bag."

DiNozzo snorted faintly.

Janet slumped tiredly. "Oh, good gravy. How cliché."

I turned away. "Patrice might know more," I murmured to Gibbs.

"Who is Patrice?"

"Patrice Ingram-Ashcraft." I opted not to mention that she is often referred to by her initials as Pain In the Ass. "I told you she and Lulu were talking in the autograph room a couple of hours before the party."

"Where can we find her?"

I shrugged. "Probably at the party, still. Free food, free wine?"

"We'll have to canvass the room anyway. DiNozzo, take Ziva—"

"Oh!"

We all looked at Janet.

She looked sheepish. "I completely forgot. Lulu's ex boyfriend has been sending her some really pissy emails and texts—not quite 'I will kill you' flat out threats but…stuff you could _take_ as threatening…"

I had seen Gibbs bag her cell phone. He nodded. "We'll check into it. Thanks."

"She was going to meet up with him this afternoon—"

Gibbs snapped to like a setter on hunt. "He's here?"

"I'm pretty sure he is. Kyle—shoot, what's—oh, it's the same last name as that nerd on _Big Bang_ —"

"Cooper?" Ziva surprised me by piping up.

"That's it."

"Ask Ms. Ting—"

"Uh, Gibbs?" He gave me a mild glare at the interruption. "Kyle Cooper, that's—uh—he's—he's our film room chairman." I stared at the back wall, as though I could see through to the main tower and the Ziegfield room upstairs. "He's here all weekend."


	6. Someone's trying to kill us!

**Chapter** **Six**

"Someone's trying to kill us!"  
"Yes, should make for exciting weekend. Ring, please."  
"I wish it was Monday morning."  
(Murder By Death, Sidney Wang and son, Willie)

* * *

 _~ ~ ~ ~ ~ LibriCon 2014 ~ ~ ~ ~ ~_

 _PR 8_

 _As in prior years, the Consuite will host the round robin story over the main 3 days of the convention.. Feel free to add a line, a paragraph, a character, a twist. Please add your name! Credit where credit is due. For prior round robins, click on the_ _ **PRIOR YEARS**_ _tab and the year, then the_ _ **SPECIAL EVENTS**_ _link._

 _ **Round Robin Story schedule:  
**_ _Friday: Mystery/Thriller  
_ _Saturday morning: S-F (*not* fantasy)  
_ _Saturday evening: Romance  
_ _Sunday morning: Fantasy (*not* S-F)  
_ _Sunday evening: Free-for-all_

* * *

 **Friday night/early Saturday morning**

Probably to keep some distance between McGee and the other participants, Gibbs sent him on a hunt for Kyle Cooper. Cilly and Janet, escorted by Mr. Rubio, Tony and Ziva, returned to the Cheese and Whine party. After double checking that the Regency doors had been secured, Gibbs went to join in questioning the attendees that had been a stone's throw from the scene of the crime—with his minion of the moment, _moi_ , in tow. "Doubt it's anyone outside this little ass-sem-blee, but having it be the ex is too much to hope for. Still—"

"Motive and opportunity," I muttered.

"You've been taking notes from Ducky?" he asked dryly, flipping through his notepad.

"Lifetime of mystery books and shows."

"Already cautioned Ms.—Ting?" he frowned at his noted.

"Everyone calls her Cilly. Silly Thing, Cilly Ting…?"

He actually smiled. "Don't say anything to anyone. 'There's been an accident' was fine. And you guys did a good job of keeping the area secure."

"Except for that gangway," I said in disgust.

"Not your fault. Your job was after the fact." Someone strolling past wearing a costume of spaghetti and meatballs caught his eye. He did a classic double take and stopped in his tracks. "Wait—what the—"

"Flying spaghetti monster."

He stared at me. "Fly—" He broke off. "Never mind." Under his breath he muttered, "Nuts. They're _all nuts._ "

"They call themselves Pastafarians," I added helpfully. His look made it clear he didn't consider that helpful. I made a note to give him all the particulars— _all_ of them—at a later time.

"—details," Cilly was saying to the room when we entered. (Mr. Rubio had wisely shut the doors and posted two members of the hotel security staff—who told us their instructions were to let no one out and damned few in. We made the cut.) She caught sight of us at the door. "This is Agent Gibbs of NCIS. He'll be taking over now." I could almost hear the 'thank the gods' she was clearly thinking.

Immediate hubbub. "There has been an accident in another meeting room two doors down. We have some questions—"

"If it's an accident, why are you interrogating us?" came a belligerent voice I (thankfully) didn't recognize.

Gibbs' stony look silenced the babble in the room—and probably turned the heckler's knees to jelly. "We investigate all questionable deaths until homicide is ruled out. We'll interview you as quickly as possible. Agent DiNozzo, Officer David are with NCIS; Mr. Rubio is head of hotel security and will be assisting us—" He nodded to each in turn.

Couple hundred people in the room. Forty or fifty people per agent, roughly. I know Mr. Rubio was conferring with Keith Williams late last night and was at the front desk when I stumbled down from the consuite this morning, coffee in one hand and chocolate croissant in the other. That had been stupid-thirty this morning. Does the man never sleep?

Despite the number of people in the room, it was easy to scan the crowd. Patrice was sitting at Marguerite's table; Marguerite's face was carefully blank. "She's over there, in the far corner. Short black hair, overdressed in the slinky silver beaded number."

Mrs. Islington caught me halfway through the room. "I've instructed the staff to continue serving until we're told to clear the room," she murmured.

"Good idea. It will help keep the natives happy."

"You need a glass?"

"God, _yes._ "

We continued toward Patrice; by the time we got to the table, Mrs. Islington was at my elbow, deftly handed me a glass of wine and disappeared in a split second. The woman is part wraith, part magician. From Gibbs' glance, I got to take the opening step. "Patrice, this is Special Agent Gibbs. He'd like to ask you a few questions."

Patrice bristled. "Why? I haven't done anything!"

"Never said you did, ma'am. You knew Louise—Lulu—Weiss?" (Weiss, that's right; Janet refused to write under her married name. Too many _Rocky Horror_ jokes.)

"Yeah, everybody—wait— _knew_? Lu is—" Some of the wind was knocked out of her. "Lu—is Lu dead?"

"I'm afraid so. When did you see her last?"

It took her a minute to regroup. "Um. Here. Three? Four? Yeah, four, I think it was. No—wait. I saw her after that." She thought hard. "Sheeeee… was… In the lobby, that's right, by the art show. She was—" She squeezed her eyes shut; the tears caught in the corners made her more human than I would have expected. "Happy," she said suddenly. "Really happy."

And then dead only four hours later. Of course.

Gibbs had the situation covered and I wasn't needed, so I faded into the background. I also downed my wine in three gulps and got a refill. Across the room I could see Tony working the crowd, sifting through people. Flash the cell phone photo of Lulu's license: if the person indicates no, one or two questions then a 'please stay in the room' instruction; if a yes, more in depth questions and notes and the same instruction.

Ziva was stuck in slow motion with Paul Bedicker. He had had way too much wine; every question she asked he seemed to take as a personal attack. Did he know Lulu? Not before this convention but everyone knew everyone by now, why is she singling him out? When did he last see her? Yesterday? Today? How should he know, he didn't know he'd need to supply an alibi! Her interview was taking forever. I slithered through the crowd.

"Faster we can get through the room, the less upset they'll be," Mr. Rubio murmured as another attendee shrugged, said, "Who?" and was thanked and requested to stay in the room.

"Good point. I know Agent Gibbs is glad for your help," I said tentatively. "Not what Scott Chambers thought he was getting, huh?" I forced a weak smile.

He gave a Gibbs-esque shoulder twitch. "Can't say it's my _pleasure_ to help, but— _semper_ _fi_."

A Marine. Of course. That explains why he doesn't sleep.

Next in his line, Todd Clarke. "Did you know this woman?"

"Oh, yes, for years."

"When was the last time you saw her?"

I causally turned away, angling myself behind Todd. I managed to catch Rubio's gaze; I closed my eyes and nodded twice, very slowly, and gave him a 'you savvy?' look.

He nodded minutely. "Good, good," he said, politely breaking into Todd's description of Lulu in a meeting with a dangerous spy. "I have a contact with the Secret Service, I'm sure they'll have further information for me. I appreciate your assistance. I promise, they won't know who told us." Smoothest cutoff I've ever seen.

"But you don't understand, she's _here_."

Rubio managed not to smile. "Where?"

"Right over there. In the white dress with the hibiscus. Hibiscuses? Hibiscus?" Todd distracted himself and wandered away. "Hibiscusii…?"

"Jim, hang on." I stopped him before he could move on to the next person.

"Yes?"

"I think he's describing Moira Devereaux." She was wearing one of her trademark floral dresses and, yeah, they looked like hibiscus. Hibiscuses. Hibiscusii… whatever.

He flicked a smile. "She's a _spy_?"

"No, but she _is_ a snoop. She's…. like Kitty Kelly. But with fewer ethics. And… I know Gibbs told you what was at the crime scene." Professional courtesy. "I heard her name mentioned, specifically."

"Perhaps we _should_ chat more intensely with the lady in question. Could you convey the information to Agent Gibbs…?"

"Mmm. Happy to." I left him talking to a horror author who had never attended LibriCon before (and this might cause her to never return—or give her the plot for another book, who knows).

I know Gibbs hates to be interrupted, so I politely stood aside until he finished talking to Dixie Lee Huntington—who, unlike many others, was totally unruffled by the proceedings. Stamina? Or… something else? I literally shook my head to chase away the thought.

"So… a guy who makes beanies out of aluminum foil says—a _spy_ killed Louise Weiss?"

"I know it sounds nuts—but I heard you mention Moira's name in the other room—"

"There was a business card of hers in Tim's book. I'm sure they hand 'em out like Halloween candy here—"

"True…" I said reluctantly.

"But we investigate _all_ possibilities."

"Um, Gibbs?" I said quietly. "Moira is someone you… want to be careful around." I got a 'who, _me_?' look. "She's a poison pen. Specializes in malicious exposés, rumors, things like that. Sounds sweet as pecan pie but she's a straight shot of vinegar in her soul."

"Thanks for the warning. I'd be happy to have a convention liaison with me—just in case. Protect me from Geralda Rivera." He gave me an innocent look.

"Could I have your gun?" I muttered as I followed him toward Moira. "Justifiable pesticide."

I got a tiny snort in response. "Good one."

Moira was tickled to see us approaching. People tend to avoid her like the plague; this was kind of novel. "Ca- _sannnnn_ -dra!" she drawled, batting her eyes at us. "Ah' can' b'lieve it! Po' li'l Lou _ise_!"

"Yes, I know, dreadful," I muttered. "Moira Devereaux, this is Agent Gibbs. He has some questions—"

She turned and her eyes widened. "Oh, _my_!" She looked like a kid in Willy Wonka's factory.

Gibbs can cut an imposing figure—or a charming one. He was going for option two. "Miss Devereaux. My pleasure."

"Oh!" She giggled like a teenybopper; my face was ducked, so she didn't catch my eye roll.

"You were a friend of Louise Weiss?"

"Well—Ah wouldn' go _that_ fah..." she hedged. "Ah did meet the sweet li'l thing awl the time at conventions..." Tears welled on cue. "Ah nevah would have thought...

"Very upseting... I know..." Gibbs murmured. "We found your business card…on her. When did you meet up with her?"

"Hmmmm... 'round dinnahtime, I expect." Her voice rose a bit. "Ah was talkin' to mah publishah! Ah have a wondahful idea—" she said smugly. She caught sight of me standing on the sideline. "And it was all yo' idea!" She beamed at me.

I forced a smile. "Oh?" Great; who did I accidentally sic her on?

"What were you talking to Miss Weiss about? Specifically?" Gibbs asked.

Smitten, yes. Stupid, no. "Oh, Ah can' tell you _that._ Mah research has to be _confidential_."

(Yeah, otherwise people would be on the alert to avoid you.)

"Oh, we won't share the information," Gibbs promised. There was almost a wheedle to his voice. "But anything might prove valuable..." She still looked dubious. He lowered his voice. "Do you know anyone who might have... wanted to _harm_ Louise?"

Bingo. Her eyes widened and she gasped, hand splayed on her bosom. "Oh! Oh, Ah jus' _knew_ it wasn' an accident!"

She all but hung on his arm and proceeded to dish dirt on a dozen or more people who—in her fertile imagination—had it in for poor Lulu. To his credit, Gibbs wrote it all down. Number one on her hit list? Janet.

I kept my face blank, all the while seething. If Lulu had pissed off Janet to the point where murder was an option, she would have simply fired her. Killing her was excessive, to say the least.

We were off to the side of the room near the break away wall to the dealers' room. Gibbs and Moira were having a quiet little tête-à-tête but it didn't take a genius to figure out Moira was giving Gibbs a ton of information—good, bad or indifferent. Nobody else had had this long of a conversation with Mr. Rubio, Tony or Ziva—well, except for her challenging interview with Paul Bedicker.

Janet had returned to the room before Gibbs and I arrived, and was now sitting as far away as possible from everyone. It's one thing to write murder mysteries for a living; it's another to be a potential suspect in real life and the closest contact of the deceased. People were giving her sidelong glances that did nothing for her mood, I'm sure.

Gibbs finished with Moira long before she finished with him. She finally—reluctantly—parted company and walked off with a thoroughly inappropriate (in my opinion) smirk on her puss.

That smile wasn't lost on anyone who passed by. Especially Patrice.

My mother used to say, "Idi Amin was supposedly a good cook." I never ate a meal the man made, but I understood the meaning: even the blackest heart has _something_ positive, even if it's on the subatomic scale. Waspish, whiny Patrice had had at least one friend in her life—Lulu. Heaven knows they had been to enough conventions over the years, having worked for their respective employers for some twenty years each. Lulu had started in her schooldays, Patrice at a later age; there was at least a ten-year gap between them, but they had apparently been good convention pals. And Paul Bedicker wasn't the only one who had had more than enough to drink.

I didn't see Patrice heading for Janet until it was too late. Even through the dozens of conversations in the room, you couldn't miss their exchange.

"I know you did it. I _know_ you did it!"

"Pat—" Janet was almost visibly biting her tongue. "Sit down. Shut up. Sober up."

"You _bitch!_ She was going to tell all, blab everything to Moira—" And as I passed her, Moira's ears were wagging like frigging radar dishes.

"Oh, for the love of—tell what?" Janet snapped. She almost jumped to her feet, no mean task with Mimsy still in her arms. "I eat chocolate when I stress over deadlines? Not a news flash, I have Sees on speed dial. I'm having an affair with the pool boy? If it were true, I wouldn't deny it, I'd brag about it! Trust me—" She cocked her head and gave Patrice an evil smile. "—she might have dirt on someone, but it is not I."

In an act of bravery I would have never thought possible, Marguerite slipped up behind Patrice, stretched up and whispered a few things in her ear. Patrice snapped her head so sharply I thought she was going for an _Exorcist_ remake. Lips pressed together, she breathed heavily through her nose like a Clydesdale in a Budweiser commercial. (A possessed horse. What a mental image.) Whatever Marguerite had said _had_ had an effect; with a last glare at Janet, she spun on her spike heel and stalked off.

As I got to the table, Marguerite hesitantly put a hand on Janet's arm. "I'm sorry. Louise was a very sweet girl." She glanced in the direction in which Patrice had stormed off. "And… I know you had nothing to do with her death."

Wow. Just when you think you know someone…

Janet forced a smile. "You sure? _Everyone_ is a suspect."

Marguerite shook her head. "No." She gave Janet a secretive smile. "Sometimes she'd have trouble sleeping, go to the consuite if it was open, or the filk room… she always had a miniature backgammon game in her purse and if she found me—we'd play." It was hard to tell who was more startled—Janet or I. "And… talk. I know you were a very, _very_ good friend to her. And you'll miss her." She patted Janet's arm. "I'm really… really sorry." Without waiting for an acknowledgement, she slipped away.

Janet didn't even look up when I stepped next to her. "I want to take back anything I ever thought against that woman," she said quietly, with a rueful shake of her head. "And anything I said—" She bit her lip and looked away. "Cassie… I would _really_ like to go up to my room?" She gave me a pleading look.

"I'll ask Gibbs." I glanced around and found him on the other side of the room with Ziva and—good grief, still with Paul and Barbara Bedicker. Not a discussion I wanted to interrupt, but I could tell Janet was close to the breaking point.

Apparently Paul was now taking all the questions asked of his _wife_ personally as well. "Paul, you shouldn't get upset," she was saying in her placid way. "It's past time for your medication—" She gave Gibbs her schoolmarm look. "May we go to our room?"

"Barbie, we didn't _do_ anything." Bedicker looked ready to cry. "I want to go _home_."

Upset, hell. He's a nervous breakdown on greased skis on the fast slope. There may have been a very good reason he didn't come to conventions.

Didn't faze Gibbs in the least. "We're going as quickly as we can, Mrs. Bedicker." The meaning was clear: we'd go a helluva lot faster if your husband weren't freaking out every fifth word. "If you'd prefer to answer questions at NCIS headquarters…"

From the flick of her eyebrow, I figured she was pissed, but her voice didn't change one bit. "Of course not. That is unnecessary. If we could simply—"

"Barbie—" Bedicker was fidgeting like Lexi sometimes does. Or Mother, for that matter.

Mrs. Bedicker said something in a low voice to Gibbs that I didn't catch. Gibbs nodded with an almost sympathetic look and dropped his gaze to his notebook. While he slowly flipped through pages, Barbara walked her husband a few steps over to one of the tables and got him to sit down. He didn't look very happy about the situation and looked like he was going to be as argumentative as Mother can be when we try to thwart one of her plans. Hoping I was doing the right thing, I changed from tracking Gibbs to Paul Bedicker. I make a quick move and came up beside Barbara. "Paul, hi!" I gave him a sunny smile. "I didn't get a chance to talk to you earlier. I just wanted to take a moment to thank you personally for joining us this year." I slipped into a chair at an angle that would—hopefully—allow Barbara to go back to her interview with Gibbs.

She stepped aside and when Paul didn't say anything, walked back over to Gibbs. Paul, meanwhile, was drawing designs on the tablecloth with his fingertip. "You—you really wanted me? To be here?" he asked shyly.

Poor, socially awkward little dweeb. "Are you kidding? When I saw your name on the list, I was _thrilled_. I must have read _Terminal Issue_ a thousand times. Well, a couple hundred," I amended when he gave me a playfully suspicious look. "I know I've had to replace it at least five times."

I suddenly remembered I was breaking one of the top ten author rules: laud the new stuff. But I was lucky; apparently _Terminal Issue_ was one of _his_ favorites, too, because he launched into decades old stories about the interviews and research to get the medical research and lingo right. I was able to look attentive, nod and occasionally interject a comment or two while listening to Gibbs and Mrs. Bedicker and hope for a break before Janet totally fell apart.

Her answers were crisp and concise. Did she know Lulu? _Not before this convention._ How well did you know her this weekend? _I was introduced to her Thursday afternoon._ What did you discuss? _We exchanged hellos and I went up to our room._ Did you see her any other time? _In passing_. _She assisted Janet with her autograph sessions. I saw her in other rooms, but we never conversed._

Whole lotta nothing, just like they were getting from 95% of the people in the room.

"May I take my husband up to our room? He's been under a great deal of stress. His research assistant disappeared three years ago, his—body—was just found the other week. All this time, Paul had hoped—"

"He's dead."

I started guiltily. "Pardon?"

"Herman…" he said sadly. Oh, crap. He was listening to his wife, too. "He—he was the best researcher I could have found. I knew him back in high school. I mean _he_ was in high school. He wrote me a fan letter! It was for _Cool, Daddy-o._ " He looked at me expectantly.

No bells. But I gave him a bright smile and encouraging nod and that was enough.

"That was in _AHMM_." Ah. _Alfred Hitchcock's Mystery Magazine_. "He lived nearby, so we met for coffee—"

"Good thing he didn't go all Annie Wilkes on you." He looked lost. " _Misery_? Stephen King?"

"Oh, the little girl who starts fires. That was a great book."

Wrong book, but— "That's the writer, yes."

"Herman was a godsend." His shoulders dropped. "I miss him. A lot. He—he could find out _anything_. And this was back when we had to use libraries," he said almost defiantly.

"Before the internet," I agreed.

"And he would interview people, get all sorts of information. I only needed a liiiiitle, teeeeeeny bit—" He held his fingers a scant half inch apart. "And he'd bring me—" He threw his arms wide. "And all those notes! There were things that gave me ideas for—a thousand books. When we got the internet, he…" He puffed out his cheeks expressively… then let out his breath. His eyes became stricken. "It's all gone… _he's_ gone…"

"Well—I—I'm sure if you go through the notes, find the ideas that you had—I know it wouldn't be the same as working with Herman, but, well, the internet _does_ have a lot of information. And there are still libraries." I tried to sound positive (as opposed to overly hearty or desperate).

He shook his head, staring at the tablecloth. "It's not the same…" He let out a sigh. "Why did he go away…"

Yeah, dead is about as away as you can get. "Uh…"

I was saved by Barbara returning. "Paul, they're letting us go upstairs.' (Janet would be glad to hear that.) He nodded dumbly and got to his feet. "Why don't we walk in the garden for a bit? It's a lovely night out."

He brightened considerably. He took my hand and—I didn't laugh—kissed it. "Thank you for inviting me, Cecelia."

I didn't correct him. He made me think of the kids leaving Lexi's last birthday party—minus the courtly hand kiss. "Believe me, it's our pleasure. I hope you come next year," I added rashly. What was I saying? Would there be a con next year? Would I be dumb enough to get roped in again?

Never mind. He looked stunned and leaned close. "I can come back? You'll—let me come back?"

"You bet."

He beamed. "Thank you!"

As they passed by, Barbara gave me a ghost of a smile and added her own quiet, "Thank you."

While we were talking, Gibbs had made a general announcement thanking people for their cooperation, advising that they might be asked further questions, please be available. And if they had any further information, please contact NCIS or hotel security.

I've seen slower starts by Olympic runners.

* * *

Despite a number of glasses of wine, I was stone cold sober when I walked out of the room. Ducky and I swung by the hotel bar for a nightcap and I took the chance to give him an update of the questioning—what I had seen and heard, anyway.

He listened to my scattered recap with a thoughtful look on his face. "I wonder... Not that it has any bearing on Louise's death, I'm sure... But I suspect Mr. Bedicker might be suffering from the early stages of Alzheimer's."

I nodded. "That's what I was thinking. It's like Mother—once it's past dinnertime, her world changes."

"It's called Sundowner's Syndrome."

I nodded again. I had done a bit of research when Ducky and I first started dating. Mother had actually improved a bit when I moved in—at least, _I_ thought so. I think the additional interaction with me (and Lily, Ev, Charlie and now Lexi—plus her companion, Suzy) has sharpened her dulling points but there are days when we just aren't on the same planet. "I'm surprised he's coming out to do conventions."

Ducky shrugged. "Have you read his latest book? It's not _bad_... but..."

" _Elephants Can Remember,_ " I said suddenly.

Ducky looked confused. "Agatha Christie?"

"Right, right—I remember, some researcher did a study on the word usage in her books. It showed something like a twenty or thirty per cent drop in vocabulary and language skills compared with her earlier works. They were able to show early indications..." I trailed off. "Jeez. First he loses the guy who's his right arm, leg and kidney for research—now he's losing his communicative skills."

"I'm glad he made it to the convention. Like Terry Pratchett, he might not be able to make it to another."

"If we _have_ another," I said morosely. "Murder is not a selling point."

"Really? With some of this crowd, it might be a draw."

Before I could shoot off a smart comeback, his phone rang; I saw _GIBBS_ on the front and winced. Now what? My own cell phone rang; CILLY. Double uh-oh. I got a knot in my stomach. "Hey, Cilly, what's up?"

"Agent Gibbs is looking for Dr. Mallard," she said dully.

"He's here, he's talking to Gibbs already."

"Could you come to the pool?" Before I could ask, she added, "There's another body."

Good god, who? Ducky asked Gibbs the same question I was thinking and got his answer first: "Miss Patrice Ingram-Ashcraft," I heard from the speaker.

Crap. Crap, crap, _crappity_ , crap, crap. And then some.


	7. Ritual Murder—What's your hobby?

**Chapter Seven**

Ritual Murder—What's your hobby?

* * *

 _~ ~ ~ ~ ~ LibriCon 2014 ~ ~ ~ ~ ~_

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_ _Click_ _ **HERE**_ _for full list_

* * *

 **Saturday early morning**

Patrice was sprawled on a webbed lounger in the fenced off hot tub area. "Another guest was going to unlock the gate, saw the victim on the lounge and the blood running into the drain. Checked to see if the victim was alive—" _Wow. Most people would run, screaming, into the night_. "She went to get the manager—" _Mrs. Islington is going to get a voodoo doll in my image._

Cilly was listening to Gibbs give us the rundown, her face impassive. Blank. Too blank. Her train of thought hadn't derailed, it never left the station. Mr. Rubio and DiNozzo had been searching Lulu's room—she was along as a representative of the convention. Mr. Rubio called Gibbs to advise they found an envelope with $9741 in cold hard cash, only to be told of the second death. A little jurisdictional discussion and they opted to seal and sign the envelope and put it in the hotel safe.

"Victim's keycard was used to enter her room at 11:42," Mr. Rubio said, having called the security office. "She was discovered at—"

"12:10," Mrs. Islington murmured.

"That's a tight window, especially since she had to change and make her way back down—" Mr. Rubio shook his head.

"When she was—uh—talking to Lulu, she mentioned she was going to hit the hot tub after midnight," I volunteered. "She was hoping to—uh—" I hunted for a delicate way to put it.

"Anyone she was... 'meeting?'" Gibbs asked.

I sighed. "She was hoping to… 'meet'... McGee. But I'm sure he doesn't 'date' outside his species," I added at McGee's appalled look.

"No witnesses. Nobody in the area," DiNozzo said. "Except for the off duty EMT who found the body."

Ah. That explained the lack of panic.

"And—how odd."

"What, Duck?"

Having been given the okay by Gibbs, Ducky was doing a little poking and prodding in advance of the night crew coming to collect the body. "The area is tiled, no landscaping..."

"Plays havoc with the drains," Mrs. Islington said.

"Of course... but there are very small clumps of dirt in the wounds and caught in the blood. _Dirt._ "

Almost as though we were directed, we all glanced around. Trees, grass, border plants— I gasped. The others turned toward me.

"Yes?" Gibbs puts a lot in a single word.

I turned to Mrs. Islington. "Back when we did the walk through, I tripped on a hose—"

She immediately followed my train of thought. "Agent Gibbs?" She led him to the nearby border.

Gibbs squatted next to where she pointed and pulled out a hose guide. "Yeah, this would make a great weapon. McGee, David—"

They looked at what he held up and split off in opposite directions, poking about in the nearby shrubbery. "Perp could have taken it with him—" DiNozzo started to say.

"Or not." McGee looked up from where he had parted some shrubbery. Ziva came over and shot several pictures of what he had found. "Nothing with it. Looks like it was just tossed aside. But, yeah, blood on the tip."

"Bag and tag," Gibbs said, probably out of habit. He stared across the way at the bank of rooms: Regency, Renaissance, and Georgian—or, crime scene, access, and interrogation, if you will. "Room's still open…"

Not for long. The last of the waitstaff rolled a cart through the door, and security locked the door firmly behind them. Gibbs loped over, conferred with Mr. Rubio's minions and came back with a look of mild irritation on his face. "Room emptied right after we left, area was clear. Nobody was outside of the room to see anything."

"Boss…" Tony said slowly. "Everyone we've talked to says the first victim shouldn't have _been_ a victim. Nice girl, kind of boring, but nobody would have _wanted_ to kill her. But this one?"

I suddenly felt guilty about the concom meeting Thursday night, wishing that Patrice could be our murder mystery victim.

Of course, I hadn't been alone in my thoughts. My guilt disappeared.

"And?" Gibbs prompted.

"Well, what if someone mistook Louise for—her?" Tony suggested, stumbling for a second as the name escaped him.

"Patrice," I supplied. "Patrice Ingram-Ashcroft. Ingram-hyphen-Ashcroft."

Gibbs didn't roll his eyes, but it was a close call. "They don't look alike. Not even the hair color."

"But if someone just said, 'kill the assistant' and didn't point her out—" Tony argued.

"Not likely. But—not _impossible_ ," Gibbs conceded.

"Once you've eliminated the impossible whatever remains, no matter how improbable, must be the truth," I half-mumbled.

Tony's face split in a wide grin. "Spock! _Star Trek 6_!" He's not a big s-f fan, but he's the walking trivia book for almost any movie.

"Sir Arthur Conan Doyle. Sherlock Holmes," I corrected.

"Hey—Spock said that quote was from an ancestor, you think—sorry, Boss." He broke off when Gibbs gave him a glare. (He saves head slaps for when they aren't in public, I've noticed.)

"What's the story on the money you found in Ms. Weiss's room?"

DiNozzo shrugged. "Envelope, white, business. Unsealed. No markings. It was in the dresser drawer, sitting on top of a pile of t-shirts. 97 hundreds, two twenties and a single. If she was killed for it, they didn't get it, and it wasn't exactly hidden. Room was neat, didn't look like it had been searched for _anything_."

"Patrice said Lu was 'really happy,'" I said. "Because she got the money? Or because she was using the money to _get_ something?"

"Good question. Got an answer?"

I didn't get my feathers ruffled by Gibbs' comment. "No, but Janet might have one. Want me to ask?"

He thought a moment. "Keep it general."

I pulled out my phone and sent a fast text. _You up?_

After a moment I got an answer. _No, this is a recording. I may never sleep again. What's up?_

 _PIA said Lulu was really happy today. You know anything about it?_

 _Not sure. Something to do with her idiot ex._

 _Thx._

 _What's up?_ She repeated. _Any idea who… OMG was it jerkface?_

 _Don't know. Promise, I'll tell you what I know when I can. Laters._

I gave Gibbs a rundown of the text messages. "McGee. That—projectionist. He said he hadn't seen Ms. Weiss since about 1900 Thursday."

"Right, Boss."

"Did he say anything about planning to see her later?"

McGee shook his head. "He's probably still in the film room, he's working the night shift—"

Gibbs jerked his head toward the main building. "Victim was 'happy' and it supposedly had something to do with the ex."

"On it." He hustled off toward the main tower.

Gibbs continued to stare down at Patrice. "If the first victim hadn't been holding McGee's book… I don't know that this one…"

"Better safe than sorry," Ducky said, straightening up. "Dr. Parrish and Ms. Thomas will be here shortly to pick up our new guest—we _are_ …?"

Gibbs nodded. "I don't like coincidences."

"The universe is rarely so lazy." I was in a Sherlock Holmes mood.

He gave me a flash of a smile. (Well, his lips twitched.) "I like it."

"No charge," I said with a sigh. "Gibbs… I don't like to speak ill of the dead, but if anyone was asking for it, _she_ was. She and Moira are cut from the same cloth—same nasty attitude, same desire to know all the dirt on someone. Only difference is, Moira makes money at it—and she's a better actress. Pat has—had—no problem letting her inner bitch show through. And I could tell you stories all night." I jerked my head toward Patrice. "I probably only know one one-hundredth of the dirt about her."

Gibbs cocked his head and started off. "So if there was any scuttlebutt—" He nodded toward Patrice. "—or Ms. Weiss…"

I knew where he was going. "Moira would know. For sure."

He scribbled a note to himself. "We should talk to Mizzzzz… Devereaux… again."

"Lucky you."

He smiled faintly. "I'll take backup."

"Take a taser," I muttered.

* * *

McGee returned in about ten minutes with Kyle in tow, almost colliding with Dr. Parrish and Kelly Thomas as they arrived with a gurney for Patrice. Kyle stood at the edge of the group, looking more and more uncomfortable as the minutes passed. (Being stared at by Gibbs can do that.) Finally McGee said, "Boss, this is Kyle Cooper."

Another long silence. "You sent a lot of… unfriendly messages to Louise Weiss."

He hadn't had enough time to look at her cell phone or track down her email; he was using Janet's comments for a stab in the dark.

The stab hit. Kyle turned a mottled scarlet and stared at the ground. "I didn't—I mean, I wasn't—she just—it's—we—uh—"

He not only couldn't complete a sentence, he couldn't get one started. Gibbs just stood there and stared.

"I'm _stupid_ ," Kyle finally blurted. "I'm a fucking _idiot_. I made a mistake, Lu found out about it and that was it. She walked out."

"Mistake?" Gibbs prompted blandly.

"I, uh—cheated on her," he admitted. I'll give him points, he didn't try to gloss it over. His gaze flicked toward the lounger where they were transferring Patrice's body to the bag.

"With _Patrice_?" I blurted. Gibbs didn't say anything. Euuuuu. She slept with anything mammalian. God knows what strains of creepy STDs he'd been exposed to.

"Yeah. Last year at the con. Lu found out about six months ago. She didn't know _who_ —"

 _Yeah, or that chat with Patrice would have been a lot louder._

"But she knew. And that was it."

"Straw that broke the camel's back?" Gibbs murmured.

Kyle's blush had been receding. It came back with a vengeance. "Yeah."

"And you thought harassing her would make her come _back_?"

He looked Gibbs squarely in the eyes. "I got caught. I was mad—at myself. So I did some stupid things. _You_ ever do something stupid? Sir?"

Gibbs though a moment, then gave a small nod. "Yeah. Yeah, I have."

"Well, everything I've done for the past year has been Darwin Award stupid. But Lu was helping me out of a jam. She was paying off the car we bought together and I was turning it over to her."

"Cashier's check?" Gibbs asked oh-so-nonchalantly.

Kyle looked uncomfortable. "No. Cash."

Gibbs gave him an astonished look. " _Cash_? Untraceable, unaccountable-for _cash_?" A little hammy, but it got the point across.

"My, uh, creditors don't take checks."

 _Bookies? Pushers?_

"So she gives you _cash_ , can't prove she paid you, and gets screwed again?"

 _Subtle, subtle._

"No." He looked almost defiant. He opened an envelope and took out a couple of papers, unfolded them and held them up for Gibbs to see. "My dad signed for the car when we bought it. Here's the contract giving her ownership for the $9741 balance—and the title. It's already been signed over. Dad was going to bring it over tomorrow morning."

In my book, that puts him at the bottom of the suspect list. To Kyle, Lu was worth more alive than dead—$9741, to be exact.

But… if his little one convention-night-stand with Patrice put his relationship with Lulu into the septic tank, maybe—

Yeah. I almost snorted aloud. When, in between movies? Running the film room—35mm, video or DVDs—means sitting by the machine while the whole movie plays, watching or reading a book until the movie ends. Or until the system screws up… which is _why_ you sit by the machine. Film ops means potty breaks between films, unless you're lucky enough to have someone extra to cover for you. If you run out during the movie, Murphy's Law guarantees the system will screw up right then. Kyle had either drafted someone or was sweating blood right now, envisioning all sorts of SNAFUs.

Dammit. I was missing _American Dreamer!_

I folded my arms and tried not to glare at the hot tub. Gibbs hadn't cleared Kyle, but I had. Which put everything back to square one.

Who killed Lulu? And why?

And who killed Patrice? (Why not?)


	8. Kill Them All And Let The Gods Sort Out

**Chapter Eight**

Kill Them All And Let The Gods Sort Out The Guilty

* * *

 _~ ~ ~ ~ ~ LibriCon 2014 ~ ~ ~ ~ ~_

 _ **Daily Progress Report: Saturday Additions  
** **PANELS  
** What To Do When You Start To Hate Your Creation?_  
 _Discussion Led By Appian Dunagain*_  
 _*go dig out your copy of Bimboes of the Death Sun—we'll wait_

 _Imitation Is The Sincerest Form Of Flattery—Until The Lawyers Start To Scream "Plagiarism!"_

 _ **REMINDER  
** List of participants can change at the last minute owing to circumstances beyond our control.  
_ _Thank you for understanding._

* * *

 **Saturday morning**

I have only the vaguest memory of going to bed. I slept, if you could call it that, but I had a night full of weird dreams. All the major players in bizarre costumes, sitting to tea with Alice, the Mad Hatter and Company. Wonderland meets Pulp Fiction.

Tea Party. Ugh. We'd probably have to cancel at this rate.

In the wee hours of the morning, I left Ducky sitting up and reading in bed and made my way to the consuite. Life looked a _little_ better with a cream cheese and raspberry Danish in one hand and a cup of coffee in the other—but not much.

"The 'net is alive… with the sound of scannnnnndal…" Cilly half-sang morosely.

"Hunh?" I managed around my full mouth.

"We didn't get any media last night—thank god—but we're a big hit on Twitter and Facebook."

"Goody?"

"Not goody. We're tagged as 'Death Con.'"

"Yeah, who needs a news crew when you have cell phones and the internet?" Anne Sheldon called from her supine position on one of the couches.

Cilly dropped her face into her hands. "I wish I had never heard of fandom. _Any_ fandom."

"I hear ya," I agreed whole-heartedly.

"Oh the tea—"

There was a sharp knock at the door. We looked at one another uneasily; all of the concom have key cards for early access and the room wouldn't open to the public until 9:00 a.m. Who was knocking at the gates of hell at quarter to seven?

Gibbs. Gibbs and company. "Oh, god, now what?" Cilly blurted out. "Sorry. That came out badly."

Gibbs shrugged. "Can't say I blame you. Trying to reach Moira Devereaux."

Cilly shuddered faintly. "She's not here." (Thank god.)

"Left messages. No call back. Called the room. No answer. Mrs. Islington wants a member of the…" He broke off, hesitating.

"Concom," McGee supplied.

"To come with us."

"I'll go," I said with a tired sigh. Cilly shot me a grateful look.

Mrs. Islington and I led the parade. "Are you twins?"

She gave me a bemused look. "Not that I've been told."

"You and Jim Rubio are _always_ here. Do they only hire insomniacs?"

That got a hint of a smile. "I don't think Jim sleeps. But I arranged to be here for the full weekend. The convention… intrigued me."

"Regret that much?" I muttered.

"Mmm…" was her noncommittal response.

I had tuned out the minor chatter behind me. As we exited the elevator, Gibbs' voice pierced my fog:

"I have a bad feeling…"

I tried to tell myself Moira had just unplugged her phone—but I didn't believe it. _Maybe an ardent fan kidnapped her. Fan? Ardent? Okay, maybe she had been kidnapped by aliens._ I nodded. That didn't sound half bad.

We hung back a bit while Mrs. Islington rapped on the door. No answer. She tried again. More silence. Using her master key card, she unlocked the door and opened it partway. "Ms. Devereaux? Ms. Devereaux, this is the manager. Are you all right?" Long silence. She opened the door further and stepped in. I heard a tiny gasp and she stepped back out, a perfect reverse cha-cha-cha. "I think you may need to call Dr. Mallard or Dr. Hampton." She was perfectly calm and unruffled. Well, on the outside, anyway.

We peered around the door. Moira lay sprawled in the doorway of the bathroom, her face mottled and distorted. I didn't need Ducky to tell me she'd been strangled.

Gibbs sighed. "Sucks being right, Boss," Tony said, interpreting the sigh.

Gibbs shook his head. "Even more for her."

* * *

At least they didn't drag Dr. Parrish and Kelly Thomas back for a third call; the weekend medical examiner, Dr. Boorman, and her assistant, Duncan Englestead, got the call. They were awakened by Gibbs and would be there in forty-five minutes; an hour, tops.

In the meantime, Gibbs had Ducky at his beck and call. He came down from our room more out of curiosity than professional need—but he came down quickly.

"Amazing… The killer used her necklace to strangle her, incredible force—yet the necklace is intact."

"Dental floss." Ducky looked up at me in surprise. "She said something Thursday night, she restrung all her necklaces with dental floss."

"Ah," he said with a nod. "I remember a case in Los Angeles, years ago. Serial killer, I caught the autopsy on two of his victims. He used dental floss as a garrote. It has great tensile strength…"

McGee and Tony were killing time until 8:00; they had an appointment to talk with late unlamented PIA's boss. I knew about the appointment because when Ducky and I got back to our room around half past one, there was a voice message on our room phone from Marguerite almost begging me to be there. I texted Gibbs, got his approval and played phone tag saying I'd be at her room with NCIS.

Ziva was checking the closet and luggage; McGee, the bedroom area; Gibbs, the bath; Tony, the mini office area in the corner. Tony was the only one to find anything of interest, scrawled notes on pages of the hotel notepad. Notepad _ **s**_ , she had gone through a stack of them. "Can't read much of it, her handwriting is as bad as graffiti. P…. E? Maybe L? ISM at the end is pretty clear… Oh, this is printed— _To the Manor Born_?"

"British comedy from the 70s," McGee called out.

"Ah, yes—Penelope Keith and… Peter Bowles, I believe," Ducky added.

"Good show," I threw in. I have a fondness for British comedies.

"PR in a circle…" Tony continued. "Man, her writing _sucks_ …"

"Hey, Tony—may I look at those? I won't touch, I promise." At Gibbs' nod, I leaned around Tony and looked at the top sheet. "I think that word is _plagiarism_."

He squinted at it. "Could be."

"She said I had given her an idea for a book." I gave him a disgusted look. "We were talking about a big plagiarism scandal on Thursday night. That must be it."

Gibbs looked thoughtful. "Plagiarism…" His gaze swung on Tony. "You accused—whatshername—Louise's boss, the writer with the cat—"

"Janet Bascom," Tony and I chorused.

"Maybe it was the other one, the one—" He looked irritated. "The weird one."

Oh, yeah, _that_ narrowed the list.

"The _vampire_ ," he snapped. It probably killed him to say that. "See if the _vampire_ is a plagiarist."

* * *

"This could be _fun_ ," Tony chortled, rubbing his hands together. He was almost skipping down the hotel hallway.

"Yeah. Fun." I twirled my finger. "Whoop. Whoop."

"We're interviewing a _vampire_ ," he said dramatically. He stopped short and gasped. "Oh! No! Did you bring your vampire killer kit?"

"Do I _look_ like Peter Cushing?" McGee said with a tired sigh. (I understood the sigh. Sometimes DiNozzo is like an overenthusiastic puppy; today was one of those times.)

"But—wait. It's daylight. Is she going to _sparkle_ all over the place?"

I wanted to smack him with a copy of _Twilight_. Hardback.

McGee actually glared. "No. She's going to burst into flames and turn into a pile of ash," he snapped.

Ha. At least he knows his mythology.

DiNozzo grinned. "Oh, this could be _neat_!"

McGee just continued to look grim. I could understand; he had tried, with so-so success, to keep his literary career separate from his professional one. Not only was he out of the writers' closet, he was investigating a crime within their community. He couldn't be more noticeable dressing as vintage Elton John with a fluorescent, feathered cape and sequined platform shoes.

Maybe it was the lack of PIA the attack dog, but when Marguerite opened the door she looked younger than her years, tiny and terrified. I couldn't blame her; I'd been scared when Gibbs had interrogated _me_ , lo those many years ago—well, I had been once I wised up and realized Gibbs was not my pal.

"They just brought tea. And cinnamon toast?" She sounded timid—and a little hopeful.

I gave her a smile. "Sounds nice. My mother-in-law likes cinnamon toast with her afternoon tea sometimes."

McGee and DiNozzo both declined the offer. DiNozzo's goofiness had disappeared when the door opened—and he was letting McGee take point.

The first questions were standard. When did you last see Patrice? (When they left the Cheese and Whine party.) Did you know of any connection between her and Louise Weiss? (Other than the usual convention friendship, no.) There was talk going around about plagiarism— (Dirty look.) Moira Devereaux was investigating a case of plagiarism. If not you, do you have any ideas, suspicions? (Head shake.) You're not being very helpful… we're doing interviews at the hotel to make things easier. We _can_ go to NCIS…

The threat bombed. Marguerite didn't care. She actually looked interested. "I'm answering to the best of my ability. Would you rather I make up answers? I can, if you like."

"You didn't like her, did you?" DiNozzo suddenly said.

Marguerite thought for a moment. "I… won't miss her," she said in a very even tone.

McGee had been holding a manila envelope all this time and reached over to hand it to her. Puzzled, she opened it.

Her confused look became one of fear—and anger. " _How_?" she finally managed to get out.

"You're listed in Hawk's."

 _Hawk's Author's Pseudonyms_. Pricey tome, so, not for every reader, but it's a handy book. I use it a few times a month, so it's a legitimate expense.

"It's SOP to check all… interested parties… for aliases."

"I'm sure it is— _Thom_ ," she said sarcastically.

McGee didn't _quite_ wince. I was dying of curiosity.

Marguerite slammed the papers on the table and jumped up. "You're just like Patrice," she spat. "Holding this over my head, making my life hell—"

I'm a nosy birch. I looked. The top page was enough information, I didn't need the rest: a much younger Marguerite, face tear-streaked and looking terrified, holding up a booking slate. Margaret DeVere. Crime: shoplifting.

DeVere? That was the name of Peter Bowles' character in _To the Manor Born_ … I watched Marguerite carefully.

"I can't stop it!" she cried. "I have done _everything_ —medication, therapy, _everything_ —my parents were _soooo_ embarrassed, so worried their friends and the public would find out, _they_ hired Patrice as a condition for me to go to conventions or even out anywhere in public, she wasn't my assistant as much as she was my _keeper_! She's the one who came up with this stupid—" She waved her hands at the coffin on the second bed. "If I want to go out anywhere, it was on Patrice's leash. Yes!" She threw her arms wide. "I! Am! A! Kleptomaniac! There, I said it! Are you happy?"

Ho. Lee. Cow.

She was almost in tears. "I _try._ I do, I really do. But I can't control it, it's… it's a disease. A mental illness. I didn't _choose_ this, but _she_ _chose_ to be a _bitch_."

This was more powerful than her writing—well, in my opinion. Between this and her kindness to Janet last night, I was totally revising my opinion of her. I actually felt sorry for her.

"Maybe she was blackmailing you? You got tired of it, shut her down?" DiNozzo asked.

She gave him a disgusted look. "After twenty-five years? Please. My parents paid her _more than I make writing_ to—to _babysit_ me! Yes, she lorded it over me. I was a _jailbird_ , I was a _thief_ , I was _mentally unstable_ , if my fans only _knew_ —!"

(She might go up in their opinions.)

"Maybe she was going to spill it to—" DiNozzo snapped his fingers are McGee.

"Moira Devereaux."

"Only if she was an _idiot_ ," Marguerite said. "Give up all that money? My parents—" She forced a smile. "My great-great-grandparents opened Ballangier's."

Ballangier's—pronounced Ballan-zhay, like Target is called Tar-zhay. But Ballangier's deserves the accent. One, it's the legit pronunciation. Two, next to them Bergdorf's _is_ Target; Harrod's is Big Lots. The have only two stores, both in existence since the late 1800s—one in New York, one in DC. You almost needed a Dun  & Bradstreet just to get valet parking. (Burke's Peerage couldn't hurt, either.)

Put simply, they could buy and sell a small country if they chose to. Payola to Patrice was petty cash—even if she bought Jimmy Choos.

"When I was younger, the police would just call my parents and…they'd make it all go away. I write under a pseudonym because writing horror novels is so…" She made a snooty face. "They still try to get me to give up writing and just… stay home and take an allowance. When they stopped being able to—" She waved her hands like a magician. "Patrice was hired." Her lips pressed into a thin line. "She signed a confidentiality agreement. My father would have _owned_ her, body and soul. But it didn't stop her from being a mean spirited, hateful, venomous _slut_." She gathered her dignity—what was left of it. "But—no. I did not kill her. I am _not_ a plagiarist. And I am _not_ a murderer."

"Have you heard _any_ scuttlebutt about _anyone_ you'd think of plagiarism?" I asked.

She thought long and hard—more so than when McGee had asked her. "People tease Meg Riley that she writes with a Xerox machine. But that's just laziness. I don't _think_ you can plagiarize yourself."

I bit back a smile. Meg's 'heartwarming and uplifting' bodice fluffers (not even close to rippers) were tame—very—but they were so many peas in so many pods. The names changed and the seasons, but they were virtually identical. But she was published and had a loyal following, so she must be doing something right.

After a few more questions that went nowhere, McGee and DiNozzo took their leave of us; I stayed behind to make sure Marguerite was okay. Being interrogated can put a shadow on your day for sure.

She looked relieved when I stayed behind. Over the now cool tea and toast we exchanged tame talk—movies we had seen, stories I told about Lexi and Mother, recommendations in the dealers' room; anything not related to Patrice or Lulu.

As I finally made 'I should be going' noises, Marguerite screwed up her courage. "If you could… keep this private…" She glanced at the copy of her booking picture. "I'd—appreciate it."

I nodded understandingly. Hey, I had plenty of secrets of my own. "NCIS won't broadcast the information. And I won't, either."

She let out a deep breath. "Thank you. I'm—I'm really sorry about all of this…"

"Hey. You didn't _cause_ it."

"True. But—"

"No 'buts,'" I said, sounding like Edna snapping 'No capes!' in _The Incredibles_. "It's not _your_ fault that Louise died, it's not _your_ fault that Patrice died no matter how much you disliked her. Now, if you _do_ have that super power, I have a list for you, bubbe." That got a laugh. "May I… make a suggestion?" She nodded eagerly. "Find a replacement. Fast. Someone—well—easier to get along with than Patrice." (Not hard.) "Before your parents…"

She gave an emphatic nod. I had a funny feeling her parents had selected Patrice _because_ she was a bitch—under the assumption that she would 'straighten out' Marguerite. Kind of like telling someone who's clinically depressed, 'Well, have you just tried _not_ being sad?' Just as stupid. Just as effective.

"I wish…" She trailed off with a sigh. I looked at her curiously. "I was just thinking about Louise."

"Maybe you'll find someone like Lu?"

"Is it mean of me to think that?"

"Not at all. Patrice wasn't warm and fuzzy—and Lu would be flattered."

"She played one helluva a backgammon game."

So her comment to Janet wasn't bullshit. Another surprise. "If you get desperate…" I waggled my fingers.

She looked delighted. "Thank you! I—I will!"

As I headed back to the consuite, I couldn't help but think how wrong I had been about Marguerite all these years.

Sometimes it's nice to be wrong.

* * *

I didn't want to leave the consuite. Three dead bodies in twelve hours. The con was one of the fastest trending items on the internet. What next?

I almost slapped myself. _Do not—DO NOT—tempt fate like that._

My cell phone buzzed; message from Suzy. _How's it going?_

 _True me, don't ark, I'll tell you latest._

 _Hmmm, you have my attention. I'll be waiting for the whole story._

 _Make sure to have plenty of booze._

Better and better. Before I forget the reason I'm texting… Joan McKirk said you were going to get the name of someone to buy her old magazines?

I smacked my forehead. I'd totally forgotten. _Shot, sorry, I'll get his cars—_ My mind went sideways for a moment. _Could you look something up for me?_ My fingertip swiped, frequently too fast for the phone to figure out the word (or what it thought was the word). I forced myself to slow down a bit.

LOL. I think I got it. Boy, typo city.

 _Autocrat hays Mr._

 _?_

 _Autocorrect. Hates. Me. Frigging technology._

 _I'll CALL you, okay? :-D_

 _That I can ham fly._

HANDLE! Jeez!

I growled at the phone and shoved it in my pocket.

"One for the road?" Anne nodded toward the breakfast tray; there were a few goodies left from the other concoms raiding it in the past hour and a half.

"Carb loading at its best. Sure." Millenium makes _fabulous_ Danish.

"Go ahead and prop the door open when you leave, it's close enough."

I hesitated by the door. "Ready?"

"No, but does it matter?" Unless her husband swapped out with her, Anne was stuck in the consuite keeping food and drink replenished. She would be fair game for people demanding information on the murders. Good thing for her, she didn't know anything.

I opened the door, knocked down the doorstop and stepped out of the way of the flood of people stampeding in for free food. I couldn't shake off the feeling that the other shoe was going to fall long and hard…

…and smack on my head.


	9. Close Your Eyes and Click 'Escape' Three

**Chapter Nine**

Close Your Eyes and Click 'Escape' Three TImes

* * *

 _~ ~ ~ ~ ~ LibriCon 2014 ~ ~ ~ ~ ~_

 **Daily Progress Report: Saturday Additions  
PANELS**

Apocalyptic Futures: When Will It End?  
 _Emergency is not 911 in Great Britain, "Decapitated her head (duh?)" and Other Editing Disasters_

* * *

 **Saturday**

I trudged down to the con registration desk trying not to feel like Joe Btfsplk from Li'l Abner with his cloud of doom overhead. I'd been to some spectacularly bad conventions but, until now, no murders. I really didn't need that record broken.

I stopped dead in my tracks—no pun intended. The normal last-minute crowd of one-day pass people is around 25 to 50. With Tim as a guest, I figured double that. Milling around the lobby were at least two hundred and fifty people, probably more, chattering animatedly. They were pushed up against the registration desks, looking like an ad for population control. (I was pretty sure we were close to the 'maximum persons allowed by law' that the fire marshal had posted.) I scuttled into the small ops room and was met by several sets of eyes that looked like so many deer in a convoy of headlights. "Thank god," someone in the back muttered. "I was afraid it was one of _them_."

"It's insane out there!" I gasped. "Any second now, they're going to eat us alive!"

"People love disasters," one of the registration gofers said glumly.

"One day reg is sixty bucks, a hundred if they want the balance of the weekend," Raul said mildly. "Even if every person out there only wants Saturday registration, that's fifteen grand. Even just dealers room pass is over six thousand." I reached past him and grabbed a handful of the daily progress reports still warm from the printer.

Cilly chewed her lip. Bad as things were going, money was money. Three murders might mean we do better than enough profit to cover next year's deposit. Horrible thought. "At least we aren't having to refund."

I was surprised, to say the least. "We aren't?" I was glad to hear it. If we canceled the food function and refunded the money for the tea, yours truly would be on the hook for the room fee.

"Nope. I forgot to tell you this morning, we managed to rearrange things and add another hundred seats today and tomorrow, we already had people waitlisted for them. They're going to get a little pissy when they find it's sold out _again_."

"What, do they expect another body?" I snapped.

I was aghast when Jonathing said, "Probably. Roman Circus, baby," he added with a dour smile.

Raul's wife, VikkI (capital I at the end, don't forget it), who was his second-in-command, shrugged philosophically from her post near the other printer. "Guess they figure if they're stuck here and the cops won't let them leave, may as well try to have fun."

"Thanks for the warm fuzzies," Cilly sighed. She flipped her hand and checked the watch face on the underside of her wrist. "Two minutes to nine. Ready?"

VikkI scooped up the last of the freshly printed card stock and handed it to the gofer who had been bending and splitting the earlier sheets along score marks. Fold- _vtt_ , fold- _vtt_ , fold- _vtt_ , fold- _vtt_. VikkI picked up the bags with the laptop and portable printer, Raul grabbed the dolly with the boxes of various schedules and other papers, their three gofers collected the rest of the crap and they lined up near the door. VikkI and Raul exchanged glances and sighs. "Bring 'em on," she said with a gulp. Raul opened the door and they marched into the lobby, the gofers following cautiously behind. The cheers that greeted them made me think of throngs of rock and roll groupies—or tumbrels, the French Revolution and Mme. Defarge. Urk.

While they were appeasing the masses, I ran the other direction (resisting the urge to throw some raw steaks into the crowd—or at least send back whips and chairs when I got free).

Sadly, I had forgotten to pack my roller skates. I spent the morning bouncing from autograph session to autograph session, with swings through the dealers' room. Human nature: if a writer or artist dies, their works get snapped up. Lulu and Patrice weren't authors, but this gave the ghouls a chance to be close enough to the thrill. Our bookshelves were stripped of Janet's and Marguerite's books. Yea, me.

Janet was being swamped in the Regency Room. I had wisely pulled her from the group setting (and was doing the same for Marguerite later on), figuring the curiosity factor would drive up the numbers. Mimsy was with her and everyone wanted a picture of themselves with Janet and her furry heroine. One of the art show gofers had been elevated to temporary assistant status, running errands or gently herding people from the table who had overstayed their welcome, and got to snap a lot of pictures of Janet+Mimsy+fan-of-the-moment. Security had already shut the door and Janet had another hour's worth of autograph hounds in the room. I checked on the autograph room, making sure security would have it cleared by 2:30 so they could set up for tea at 4:00 (and I got a look at the revised floor plan; how they managed to cram another fifty chairs was beyond me—I was scared Cilly meant one hundred for _each_ tea). Breena Palmer was hanging out by the pool, having become fast friends with Dixie Lee (Dixie had an invite to an embalming session; better than Christmas shopping at the mall). Before I could disappear back to check on Janet, Dixie waved me closer.

"What's wrong?"

"Do I need to bring in my hair sticks?" she asked quietly. I looked at her blankly. "I heard they're looking for what was used to kill—" She looked embarrassed. "I only know Moira's name because she was such a—whatever. I heard they're looking for possible weapons. Knives, screwdrivers—" She tapped her decorated letter opener (this one in about 20 shades of purple, from lavender all the way up). "I've never been on this side of a police procedural. Do I wait for them to come to me? Or what?"

"How did you hear they were looking for weapons?" I asked nonchalantly.

She shrugged. "To be honest, I don't remember. A couple of us were just talking…"

"I'll check with Gibbs and get back to you."

I hurried over to Tudor A/B (which, along with C/D would become part of the room for the tea), just in time for the last attendee to be let out of the room. I was sure Janet would go up to her room and go back to sleep until tea.

Bad bet. She snapped Mimsy's leash on her collar and jumped from the table. "I'm starving! Writing 'best wishes' a thousand times takes it out of you."

"The price of fame. Let's grab lunch. Filene's does a killer—" I broke off in confusion. "Um, a great steak salad," I finished weakly.

Janet managed a flicker of a smile. "Sounds good."

* * *

We were finishing up our 'most excellent' boysenberry mousse parfaits when my hip tingled. "Excuse me." I pulled out my cell phone and saw I'd missed a call from Suzy Bailey. For a moment I panicked, envisioning all sorts of mayhem with Mother, then remembered Suzy was doing some detective work for me. I pressed redial.

"Hi, I think I found what you're looking for," Suzy said without preamble.

"Hang on a sec." I signed for lunch (business expense!), whispered, "Catch you at tea," to Janet and slithered from the booth. "Okay. Shoot."

"Joan said you were looking through the first box of magazines. We've nailed it down to three stories. The first one is _Misslethwaite Manor. Murder at Misslethwaite Manor._ "

"How does it start off?"

I heard her carefully turn pages. "' _Snow gently fell across the landscape, blanketing the sins of the parish—_ '"

"Not it."

"Okay... _Lord of the Manor._ No, Victoria, why don't you look a... yes, I promise you can talk to Cassandra—"

"Suze, go ahead and put her on, it'll be easier to go through the other stories." I kept a steady walk to the back of the hotel, heading for the dealers' room. "Hi, Mother!"

"Cassandra! Oh!"

"What are you doing today with Suzy?"

"We're—we're planting _pansies_!"

She made it sound like Jonas Salk was discovering another cure in the kitchen. "Great! I love pansies. Are the girls coming to dinner?"

She giggled. "We're going to Paco's!"

I made a face. She loves Paco's. Ducky and I live on Tums and Mylanta if we eat there. Suzy has a cast iron stomach, and Lily and Ev have titanium. Charlie and Lexi are smart enough to stick to cheese quesadillas. "Sounds great," I lied. "Make sure to have some fried ice cream for me." (The only other edible item on the menu.) "Could you put Suzy back on the phone?"

"Are you having fun?" She wounded wistful.

I looked at the Regency A/B, still sealed and blocked off. "Scads. Have fun tonight, sweetie. Could I talk to Suzy again?"

"Sorry," Suzy murmured.

"No prob. What was that second one?"

" _Lord of the Manor. 'It was a gala event—'"_

"Noooooo... that's not it..." I was at the dealer's room by then. I skirted through the crowd and got to my table. I ran a finger through the _R_ section and pulled out a volume tiled _Bad Manors_.

"Okay. Last one... _To the Manor Born—and Died_."

"That's it. Even the title. Damn it."

"Do you need me to—"

"Yeah, hang on. I'm going to need you to read that out loud to someone," I said grimly. It took me several tries to find her, but eventually tracked her down by the pool, graciously signing a copy of the book I held. I waited until her fan had wandered away before stepping up.

"Cassandra." Penny languidly turned her wrist and glanced at the vintage women's watch. "Am I late? I thought I wasn't due until 2:00."

"You're not." I slid into the seat at right angle to her and set the book on the table. "We need to talk."

She looked politely quizzical. "About what?"

"Plagiarism," I said quietly. Her stunned look on Thursday night now made sense.

"I'm sorry, I don't know what you mean," she said coldly, starting to rise. She was trying to brass it out.

"Sit. Down."

Startled by my Mom voice, she slowly sat back down.

I put Suzy on speakerphone. "Hi, Suzy. What magazine are you looking at?"

" _Dime Dozen Mysteries_. August 1929."

Penny paled. Just a hair.

"Okay. Let's read this together. Ready?"

"Ready."

"' _A motorcar!' Caroline clasped her hands in a paroxysm of joy. 'Oh, Papa, how cunning!' Her aunt, the Dowager Lady Chillingham, was of another mind. She had willingly taken her widowed brother-in-law and niece into her home but was averse to championing his myriad interests—many of which involved frightening chemicals, such as his incessant photography or dangerous machinery such as the touring car that now sat in front of Willowstoke. But she was a mild, complaisant woman who could never even scold the cook over a burnt roast. She managed a timid, 'Oh, Francis…' but said no more_.'" Other than an occasional exception, a word here or there, we matched perfectly. A Greek Chorus of accusation. "Okay, Suzy, you're free to plant pansies." I turned the phone off, shut the book and gave her the look Ducky has spent 60+ years perfecting and I've been working on for 6. She withered.

"I'm sorry," she whispered.

"What happened?"

With frequent stops when anyone wandered close enough to possibly overhear, I got the tale. She published her first mystery novel, set in the 20s, and she was a minor one-hit wonder. Hot property. First book went great. Not a million-seller, but a respectable, solid start. Next book, the agent couldn't sell. The publisher of her first book was lukewarm; everyone else was ice cold. She rewrote it… three times. Still no luck. Deciding it just wasn't time for that tale, she managed to pull out two more plots. Another flop—and another. Frantic for inspiration, she went to a stack of old mystery magazines she'd gotten at a yard sale. She took a novella someone wrote, stretched it out. Sent it to the agent. Agent got a nibble from the original publisher—but they didn't like the stuff she added. Two choices: one, rewrite _again_ (with better stuff) or, two, strip out her part, find or write three or four more stories same length and do a collection.

She knew that the three novels she had written were good, as good as her first book—or even better. She was so mad about the latest edit, she took three more stories from old, long out of print magazines, copied 100% and sent them off, just to give them a set-down when someone noticed.

Nobody noticed.

They bought it. And it sold pretty well.

So did the next omnibus.

And the next. And the one after that.

Almost a dozen books to her credit. She had written _one_.

"But I didn't kill Moira. I may have considered her a vile, loathsome creature feeding on the misery of the human race—but I didn't kill her."

I held up a hand. "Wait—how did you know Moira's dead?" It was silly to deny it,

"I heard it in the art show. Someone down the hall from her room saw the medical examiner leaving with the body. Half the con knew it before they got to the lobby."

Telegraph, telephone, tell-a-fan. Fan-bloody-tastic.

But…

I believed her.

There's a huge difference between plagiarism and murder. Yes, someone might kill to keep a secret like that, but I didn't see Penny even squishing a bug. She might chip a nail doing it (and that _would_ be a tragedy in her universe).

"What… what are you going to do?" Penny asked hesitantly.

What _could_ I do? Nothing, really, unless I wanted to get way too involved. "Nothing." I gave her the Mom look again. " _You're_ going to deal with this." _Won't you._ Not a question.

She nodded miserably.

The thing is, I've read some of her stuff. The first book was the best of the lot. Maybe with a better agent and editor, she might not have been pushed to the frustration of plagiarizing as a semi-joke—and having the joke backfire. I trudged back to the dealers' room and put the book back on the shelf.

"Something up?" Valerie asked.

"Just wanted to ask Penny something."

"Oh. Okay."

I flitted from room to room, killing time until afternoon tea. Ducky managed to make it back by 3:00, well in time for tea at 4:00, looking a bit disgruntled. "Any word? Any word you can _share_?"

"Nothing. A dearth of information on any of our victims beyond the obvious causes of death. Autopsy is standing room only."

I was shocked. "All the beds are full?"

"Well, we have empty drawers—but in addition to the three from here, we had two 'normal' visitors. The four of us were running about like rabbits."

"Four?"

"Dr. Boorman, Mr. Englestead—and Jimmy and I. We needed all the hands we could get. Dr. Parrish and Mr. Thomas took our places for the rest of the day."

"Ah."

"I _almost_ wish Metro had taken the case."

"Almost?"

"Well—I _am_ curious."

"Yellow?"

He laughed at the archaic reference. "Something like that," he said with a lascivious waggle of his eyebrows.

We played hooky for an hour, watching the middle chunk of _Zardoz_ , one of the oddest WTF films out there. (Ducky's muttered opinion was that Sean Connery needed to meet the mortgage. Or it looked a _lot_ better on paper.) I was still grumpy about having missed _American Dreamer_ ; apparently Jordan had fallen asleep and missed it, too. She and Ducky had a second panel for tomorrow (their panel this morning had been a sellout crowd, even though they all wanted to ask about Lu, Patrice and Moira—they had a hard time keeping the crowd on topic). Ducky said that Jordan had suggested we join her and her fiancé for dinner and a movie at their place; I agreed that it was a good idea.

I was definitely cheered when we walked into the Georgian/Tudor Rooms. The décor was wonderful—lace tablecloths, baskets of fresh flowers, ribbon-bedecked sunhats artfully strewn on tables. It was lovely.

Jordan loved it, too. She had enjoyed tea with Mother a few times (and Victoria had even behaved herself); this reminded her of those pleasant days.

"Sandwiches, cookies, teacakes—love that trifle, make sure to get some," I muttered as we cruised around the tables. "Tea, tea, tea, tea, tea, tea, lemonade, punch—ugh." (Proving Millennium isn't _perfect_. I had done a taste test a couple of weeks ago and fallen in love with everything but the punch. I guess it's too many school events, but I just can't stand the stuff.)

"Holy cow, that looks like a wedding cake."

I looked around; nobody was near enough to overhear. "It is," I whispered in her ear. "It was scheduled for last Wednesday. They canceled that morning. Mrs. Islington offered it for free—I figured what the hell, it looks like a basket of spring flowers, perfect for a garden tea party. They stuck it in the freezer, it's nice and fresh. And, like I said: free."

"Sweet. Literally."

"And _good_. It's the same cake we had for our wedding reception. Phenomenal. Almond rosewater cake, it melts in your mouth. White chocolate frosting. Pulled sugar flowers _way_ beyond my skill level."

"I can barely write 'Happy Birthday' in a straight line."

" _Trust me_. Get a slice. Get two."

"So—you got married here?"

"Mm-hmm." While we strolled around the room, I gave her a quick rundown of our meeting (murder), courtship (fraud) and marriage (free wedding and reception—gratis because Ducky solved an attempted murder at the hotel).

"You sure don't lead a dull life."

"Plenty of times I wish we did."

"Can't say I blame you."

We passed by the table where Penny was sitting with several fans; she gave a slightly guilty start, turned away and focused very intently on the sandwiches on her plate. She was dressed in a different vintage dress than she had been a couple of hours ago (the other one was probably drenched in sweat), but all of her 20s-40s outfits are pretty, feminine and flowing, perfect for a tea party. Either she has nerves of steel or crime gives her an appetite...or she was worried the food in prison was lousy and was stocking up.

A swing past the array of cookies and I ran into Janet—almost literally. "How are you holding up?"

She shrugged. Mimsy was doing her fur collar imitation, draped around Janet's neck and looking like she was part of the black with gold embroidery caftan. I was glad she was in attendance; she'd like the chicken salad sandwiches, they were made from the chicken kabobs. "It's really starting to sink in. I'm going to miss Lu." Her trademark sarcasm piped up. "Sometimes she was a 10 watt bulb in a brownout, but she was a sweet girl, her typing was deadly accurate even if she couldn't break 50 words a minute—and she made my tea letter perfect."

Janet had bypassed the sandwiches and cookies and cake and punch—and tea. I cocked an eyebrow at the highball glass in her hand. "That's not tea."

She looked astonished. "Very good. I'll make a sleuth you of you, yet."

Jordan snorted faintly. "What 'yet?' Metro should give her her own tin."

At Janet's look of surprise (and interest), I gave her a flip answer. "Honey, if I sent you my press clippings, you have another four or five books, easily."

She gasped. "You've been holding out on me, Nancy Drew! Shame on you." From her tone, she was joking. She'd _really_ suck in air when she found out I wasn't.

"I'll leave 'em to you in my will."

"Good way to get killed off early." The words were out before she could think about them. She made a face and took a hit off her drink. "I've got a question..." she said, neatly switching subjects.

Leaving Jordan and Janet chatting amicably (Jordan had read several of Janet's books; Janet had attended Ducky and Jordan's talk this morning, was planning on attending the second one tomorrow, and had a ton of questions in the meantime. I had a feeling this was the start of a lovely friendship.), I continued to wander.

Dixie Lee hadn't ignored the cake. She was downing her slice and looked ecstatic. "This stuff should be illegal. It's murdered my diet. But it went down without a fight."

"The calories don't count," I said with a wink.

"Really?"

"Mmm-hmm. Like popcorn and soda at the movie, food at a con is part of the entertainment, so the calories don't count." She gave me an amused look. "Diet soda cancels out a jelly doughnut. Broken cookies have no calories—all the calories fell out when the cookies broke. Anything medicinal—chicken soup, jell-o, hot toddies—has no calories because it's part of the medical treatment. Anything eaten in the dark is safe; calories can't see in the dark."

"I love how you think. You have these embroidered on pillows?"

"Nope. On a poster at the store. I sell a ton of them after people break their New Year's resolutions." I smiled. "I have it at the table in the hucksters' room."

"Sold."

I left her muttering, "I'm gonna break every Oreo at home and set those little buggers free," and continued on my stroll.

Paul Bedicker was enjoying the tea party even more than the Cheese and Whine reception. He was doing his best to start a famine: a plate of five or six sandwich corners, two plates of cookies, a plate of petit fours, tea breads and fairy cakes, two slices of the aborted wedding cake, a plate of fruit... and two cans of Diet Coke. (Diet soda also cancels out party fare, I guess. Seems to be working; the guy is as skinny as a flagpole.)

He gave me a worried look. "Is it okay that I'm not drinking tea? I brought them from the consuite, if that counts. I really hate tea."

"If anybody gives you a dirty look, tell them I said it's okay."

A sunny smile appeared. "Thank you, Cecelia!"

I turned away and tried no to sigh. Apparently Cilly, as head of the con, is the only name he has committed to memory. For the sake of his wife, I hoped that the confusion of the con was making his suspected Alzheimer's worse—that he was on a more even keel at home.

Barbara Bedicker was starting her own famine with several plates of treats neatly stacked in a pile (cake wisely on op). "Cassandra, this tea is wonderful. I swear, I'm going to go home ten pounds heavier from this convention. It's a good thing we didn't go to conventions before or I'd be as big as a house." She was in the middle of pouring a ladle of punch in her cup and overfilled the cup. "Drat." She made a face and dumped it back in. "With my luck I'll spill it all down my front." Today her jacket-skirt combo was creamy mohair with thin lines of gold and brown in a mock plaid. A little more stylish than the odd pinkish-tan set from the night before, but it didn't look comfortable to me.

But screaming maroon punch would have done little to improve it. "I have the same luck," I agreed while she carefully poured the punch back in, gave the contents a quick stir to mix up the melting ice ring and served up a _half_ ladle of punch.

"Much better," she said approvingly. She took the tiniest sip and blanched. "Um..."

Even while being questioned last night, she never really appeared flustered. This was a first. "I know. Other people love it, but I find it way too sweet."

She looked relieved. "Oh, _thank you_ for saying that. I hate to be wasteful..."

"Pour it in the trash and put the cup on the tray by the door," I suggested sotto vocce.

"I think I'll sick to tea." She still had a guilty look. I'm betting she grew up with 'waste not, want not' pounded in her head.

"Here. Let me." I took the cup and she gave me a grateful smile. "Have two cups of tea. That'll make Paul feel better about his Diet Cokes."

She pursed her lips. "I know they keep saying 'aspartame is perfectly safe'... but..."

"No argument from me. I get migraines when I drink diet sodas. And I know a computer programmer who was worried he was losing his memory and he'd have to retire. But he only had memory problem in the second half of his shift. Finally noticed it was after he had lunch break, including 3 huge glasses of iced tea—with aspartame. He was drinking the tea to wake up, he was on third shift at Atlantic Bank." Barbara looked astonished. "Coke is one brand that has cans of _both_ aspartame and Splenda. He's actually drinking Diet Coke—with Splenda."

"I didn't notice! Thank you, Cassandra, I appreciate that."

"Thank Anne. She's the one who stocked the consuite with the sodas."

"I shall." Carefully balancing her plates of goodies, she added several lumps of sugar to a cup of tea and strode off to join Paul.

Ducky had made a detour to the art show to check on his bids and was seated at a small table with Cilly, Jordan and Jane. (I was right. Jordan and Janet were quick on the path to being best buddies.)

"Part of me really, _really_ wants to know what the hell was going on with Lulu and Patrice. And Moira," Cilly said. Janet nodded once.

"But part of you doesn't," I finished.

Slightly rolling her eyes, Cilly nodded in agreement. "If we can just survive the con..."

(Unlike Lulu and Patrice. And Moira.)

"God, I hope nobody is doing their own version of _And Then There Were None_ ," Janet said, making a face.

"Bite. Your. Tongue," Cilly said with a shudder.

"Or their own murder mystery weekend. I think every show did one. _Remington_ _Steele._ _Diagnosis_ _Murder._ _Moonlighting."_

Cilly gave me a doubtful look. _"Moonlighting_ did one? I don't remember that."

"I remember the Shakespearean one," Janet offered.

"'I hate iambic pentameter!'" I quoted.

"Actually... _Moonlighting_ _did_ one. It was on a train," Cilly said, nodding. "But _Remington_ _Steele_ didn't."

"Are you sure? It's such a staple." I could picture the episode. Well, I thought I did.

"No... they had a weekend at a Playboy-esque publisher's island... a mystery writer's group had their treasury stolen or something like that... and a group of people were dressed up like Holmes and Watson, Mr. Moto, Miss Marple…"

"Jessica Fletcher?"

She shook her head. "I don't _think_ so... the first episode was a costume party, maybe you're thinking of that."

"Maybe. They had an offshoot of that on _CGIS—_ they were on an abandoned tanker, there was a spy killing everyone off _—"_

I felt a tiny breeze, someone dashing by me at warp speed. Ducky was sitting across for me; I saw someone else hurry past him, looking very uncomfortable. Thirds on the cake was my guess.

Ducky looked beyond me with a 'something's wrong' frown. "Cassandra—" he started in a low voice.

Several more people were sprinting for the door. A couple didn't make it—and had the horrifically embarrassing moment of tossing their cookies in public.

Cons have room parties. Room parties have booze. This wasn't the first time I'd seen someone 'reviewing inputs' as my brother put it. But this was the first time I'd seen it as a group event with people joining in left and right.

" _Poisoned! We've been poisoned!"_ came a shrill scream from the back of the room. Rita Baker, author of several conspiracy nut thrillers.

"No, no—" Cilly leaped up. "Everyone, stay calm, sit down—"

It was like an outtake from _Drop Dead Gorgeous_ , where the beauty contestants are upchucking over bad seafood. (I was so glad this was indoors with no balcony.)

I grabbed my cell phone and speed dialed Ms. Islington and gave her a three-line rundown of the situation. I expected a polite version of 'are you shitting me?' Instead she said, "I'll alert Dr. Potter. We'll be right there."

I let Cilly know; Ducky and Jordan, in the meantime, had jumped into doctor mode, trying to aid the rocketing list of sufferers. The room was in pandemonium.

Mr. Islington arrived in moments with Dr. Potter behind by a split second. He joined Ducky and Jordan and she stepped aside with Cilly and me. (I was echoing Cilly's comment from earlier: I wished I had never heard of fandom. Any fandom.)

"Sandy—" Ducky laid a hand on my arm. "The sufferers seem to be recovering quickly— _too_ quickly for true food poisoning. And food poisoning wouldn't _appear_ this quickly."

I could hear the 'thank God' in Mrs. Islington's sigh.

"Something was clearly introduced to the food. An emetic of some sort."

I exhaled heavily. "Great."

There was a hubbub at the door. Several DC Metro EMTs walked in, kits in hand. "We have multiple calls of poisoning at this location...?" the first one through the door said.

Cilly sank into a chair and dropped her face in her hands. "Shoot me."

 _Me, first._


	10. One of us here will be

**Chapter Ten**

"One of us here will be one million dollars richer,  
and one of us will be going to the gas chamber to be hung."  
(Monsieur Perrier, _**Murder**_ _**By**_ _**Death**_ )

* * *

Daily Progress Report: Saturday Additions  
 _ **PANELS**_

 _Resemblance to Persons Living or dead… Yeah, Right  
_ _(or) Be Nice or I'll Make You a Character in My Next Book_

* * *

 **Saturday evening**

The consuite was virtually empty. The usual permanent residents—Pat and Anne Sheldon (as consuite chairpersons, at least one of them has to be present at all times), Jenny Keppler and Alice Martin—along with a much smaller than normal smattering of fen with a case of NEBTD (Nothing Else Better To Do) were scattered about the room. Three overstuffed chairs, sitting at right angles to each other, were filled by Ducky, yours truly, and Cilly—who was slumped so low in her chair she looked liked she wanted to skink through to the lowest level of the parking garage.

As disasters go, it wasn't _that_ bad. Ducky's suspicion—that someone had introduced an emetic into the food—was borne out by finding a couple of empty bottles of Ipecac in the trash. Since a "prank" that fells fifty people is a little more than putting a whoopee cushion on the chair of the guest of honor, the police bagged and tagged them and were trying to raise prints.

"In large enough doses, it can cause heart damage—even death," Ducky had grimly told me on the way up to the consuite. (The disaster of a tea had been cleared out by six o'clock; we had all decided to forego dinner and were cooling our heels until the main rooms closed at eight.)

At least the cops didn't think it was linked to the three murders. So far.

"Our insurance doesn't cover multiple murders," Cilly said morosely. "I don't think it even covers _one_ murder."

"People will forget in time," Ducky said consolingly.

"They had _news crews_ here, people ralphing their guts for national television. And of course they heard about our trifecta of dead bodies."

"I think they ignored that." She looked at me incredulously. "No, seriously, I think they thought it was about the murder mystery for tomorrow."

"Thank the gods for small favors."

"Hardly anybody talks about Legionnaires Disease any more." Ducky was still working on his Rebecca of Sunnybrook Farm scout badge.

"I'll make a note to throw another con in twenty years."

(Thirty-five. But who's counting?)

"And I feel badly for Lu and Patrice and Moira, I really do—especially Lu," she added and looked guilty.

"Don't worry, we all feel the same," Patrick said. "Lulu was definitely the best of the bunch."

 _The Round Robin story had, despite genres being listed for specific days, turned into a murder mystery. And a commentary. Not a nice commentary, either._

 _ **Farewell, Moira**_

 _ **Here she lies who made out lives a hell,  
**_ _ **Still so stiff and waxen and disdainful;  
**_ _ **She hated us and yet we wish her well—  
**_ _ **We only wish her death had been more painful.**_

 _ **She passed in the quintessence of contentment,  
**_ _ **With fluffy pillows, priests, and scented tallows.  
**_ _ **So pardon our residual resentment,  
**_ ' _ **Cause bitches like her should cash out on the gallows.**_

 _ **Why is she within this coffin?  
** **She pushed her luck just once too often!  
** **The rites are completed and so we depart  
** **With a smile on our lips and a stake in her heart.**_

 _As I walked into the room, I recognized the only slightly altered poem of_ _ **He Looks So Natural**_ _by Victor Buono—I have a copy of the book;_ _ **It Could Be Verse**_ _has been out of print since forever. Given that Moira was strangled, 'gallows' wasn't far off. But apparently the author—and I use the term loosely—wanted the public spectacle the killer had denied us. Even though I thought Moira was a nasty piece of work and I would miss her like I'd miss the plague—_

 _I tore the page off the wall before Cilly could see it._

"I wonder if they'll even _let_ us throw another con," Anne mused. She was sorting the envelopes that would be taped to the bottom of the chairs during the banquet—that way people couldn't find out which seats were connected and team up in advance. Not without looking like the local moving and storage crew, anyway. "I'm amazed we're still open."

"Easier to keep the suspects together," I said without thinking. Everyone besides the three of us exchanged nervous glances, realizing that we all were suspects. _Still_ suspects.

"Do you even _want_ to?" Jenny asked. She was probably scared we'd fold up out tent and never come back. This was one of her chances to get out of the house, even if she was under a hundred rules and regulations—and, until now, we had been a 'fun' con.

"Ask me Tuesday," Cilly sighed. "Our liability insurance might be so high that it's a moot point."

"A nominal egg," Alice said, munching carrot sticks and making notes on her ancient manuscript.

Ducky and I exchanged puzzled looks; even Cilly roused enough to look confused. "I've never heard that before," I laughed. "What's a 'nominal egg?'"

Alice gave me a strange look. "How much the insurance will run," she said slowly. " _An_ _arm and a leg._ "

We all burst into laughter, even timid little Jenny. "Oh, darn, I had such an image of this huge, Faberge type egg," Anne said.

"But that would hardly be _nominal_ , "Ducky corrected.

"We should have a nominal egg contest next year," I suggested. "Faberge. Ukrainian. Royal icing. Whatever. Never mind, I'm babbling."

"If we make it to next year—" Cilly held up two sets of crossed fingers.

"We could use some levity." Ducky waved a hand at me. "Speaking of nominal eggs that cost an arm and a leg—tell that story about Lulu and Patrice that was quite amusing." I looked at him blankly. "Kellerman?"

Oh. I sighed; I really wasn't in the mood. "You're a better storyteller." (True.) "You do it."

He tipped his head. "As you wish."

"Thank you, Westley."

I pulled myself off the couch and shambled over to the buffet for some fruit. And veggies. And chips and dip and cookies and M&Ms. I only half-listened to Ducky—he had even caught the early parts about Patrice's, um, proclivities, and had people giggling and snorking even before he got to the good part. Leaving my plate at the end of the table, I ducked into the extra bathroom and fished through the ice and water in the bathtub and finally came up with a Coke. I grabbed the hand towel to dry it off—

—and froze.

Carrying a still-dripping Coke, I went back into the main room. " _What did you say_?" I asked. I was still stunned.

Ducky looked surprised at my rude interruption. "Faye Kellerman." He laughed. "What did _you_ hear this time?"

"They killed a man," I said slowly. "Or—maybe— _they_ _killed_ _Herman_ ," I enunciated.

"Wait—you mean Herman? Herman Prendergast?" Cilly asked.

"Off the top of my head, he's the only Herman I know—except for my daughter's stuffed fish," I said.

"Was he murdered? I thought it was a car accident," Anne said.

"He disappeared—gosh, three, three and a half years ago?" Cilly said. "They found his car—and him—a few weeks back. But they wouldn't be able to tell after this long… would they?"

All eyes turned toward Ducky. "They might…" He pulled out his cell phone, tapped some keys and started making 'hmmmm' noises. After a few minutes he nodded decisively. "Ah. Body found in… yes, that would be Claridge County. The coroner is Ed Carroll. I've known him for years." (Of course.) A couple of taps and he held the phone up to his ear. "Hullo, Ed, it's Donald Mallard. Am I disturbing you? No? Good. I just have a couple of questions about a recent case in your jurisdiction. Herman Prendergast?" He nodded. "That's the one."

They exchanged technical babble for a good five minutes, including Ducky providing some convention background (minus the three murders and mass poisoning, thank heavens). When he finally turned off the phone, he had a thoughtful look on his face.

"Anything you can share?" I asked.

"Dr. Carroll was… not surprised that I was questioning the 'accidental death.' He has filed his autopsy report; it's public record. Mr. Prendergast was killed elsewhere, transported to the location of the accident, and then he and the vehicle were run off the edge of the road into the ravine. His death is listed 'at the hands of person or persons unknown.'"

"Holy cow. Why would anybody kill that adorable little nebbish?" Anne blurted.

"You knew him?" I asked.

"Sure. He went to cons all the time. Loved 'em. You probably saw him here twenty times and never noticed. Gen con, lit con, Trek con, you name it. Paul didn't—and, boy, has _he_ changed."

"If he didn't go to cons, how did you…?" Cilly frowned, confused.

"I work for Ketcham, Day and Elgar, remember? Who used to do the author contracts until ten years ago?" She waved her fingers. (Good; if the con comes back next year, _she_ can take the slot back, no arguments from me.) "They throw a _lot_ of launch parties. Paul Bedicker was their client for thirty, thirty-five years. He'll go to any party with free food and an open bar."

Sounded like what I'd seen the past couple of days.

"Now he's very quiet, kind of shy, a little dorky. Back then he was… entertaining." She was trying not to laugh. "A little caustic, but not as bad as, say, Harlan Ellison. A little lecherous, but not as bad as, say, Isaac Asimov. And _he_ wasn't that bad," she temporized with a slight blush. "I think a lot of that rep was from his 'dirty limericks' books. But Paul was a fun guy to have at a party, and he went to _every_ party. He was also not stingy with praise, especially for Herman. Sometimes Herman would join them, but he was more of a con party guy than a cocktail party guy. But Paul said Herman was the best researcher on the planet, it was like having a branch of Kellam de Forest in his house."

Only Ducky looked confused. "Kellam de Forest is a research company on the Paramount studio lot," I explained. "They read through scripts for accuracy and legal issues. Ask them what the population of Fresno, California was in 1932 and they'll find it out for you. A lot of their research is legal clearance—I remember they changed the main character on _All in the Family_ to _Archie_ Bunker because the name they had chosen originally actually existed in that area of New York. I first heard about them in the old _Making of Star Trek_ book. I wanted _so much_ to work for them—"

"Me, too," said Cilly and Anne in chorus.

"Me, three. Or four?" Patrick added.

"Alas, I lived on the wrong coast. But for Paul to compare him to Kellam— _that's_ a compliment."

"Too bad he couldn't hack it as a writer," Cilly said.

"He was a writer as well?" Ducky asked.

"Not exactly… He wrote a novel—I hear it was pretty good, but the publisher wanted to do a rewrite. Come on, even Stephen King has to rewrite. But Herman didn't take the criticism well, took off, disappeared—until last month," I said. "Paul really fell apart, too. Well—you saw him at the panel." Ducky nodded. "I wonder if that's when the Alzheimer's started."

"Alzheimer's?" Cilly said sharply. "Paul has Alzheimer's?"

"Um, suspected," I hedged. "You've seen him. He's scattered, hard to keep on track, especially at night. Doesn't remember current things. Can't remember my name and I have a badge with inch high letters on my left boob. Comes off with non sequiturs that make _zero_ sense—and he's not making the old joke, 'non sequitur society, we don't make sense—'"

"'But we do like pizza,'" someone from across the room finished.

"And you were mentioning the change in his books," Ducky reminded me. "The difference in vocabulary."

"Right. That paper someone did, comparing Agatha Christie's older books with her later ones? _Elephants Can Remember_ is where it was first really noticeable." Only Anne and Cilly nodded in recognition, so I continued. "There was a huge drop of vocabulary and language skills. The researcher sees it as an early sign of her Alzheimer's. If you've read Paul's newer books—they just don't compare."

"They aren't that _bad_ ," Anne argued. "Just not as _good_. I'm betting Herman did more than research. Probably helped with polish and rewrite."

"Or… vice versa," Ducky said slowly.

Cilly frowned. "Pardon?"

Ducky pulled out his _Authors Index_ that listed the attending authors and their published works. "Let's see… Recent works. 2005, _Blue Danube_."

"That was _great_ ," Pat said enthusiastically. "It would make a great miniseries."

"2006, _Too Many Crooks_. 2007, _Hilltop_ and _White H_ _HH_ _ouse Assault_ ," Ducky continued. "2008, _Castle Keep_ , 2009, _TMI_ and _Alternate History #5: When the South Won the War_. 2010, _Doncaster Riches_ , 2011, _Secret of Stormshire_ —"

"Oh, _yeah_ ," Pat said meaningfully. " _That_ was a dog."

" _I_ liked it," Anne said firmly.

"Please. The reviews were merciless. I'm surprised he published again after that," her husband argued.

"Even the best can have an off book," I said in defense. But it was a weak defense. The plot was hack, even the title sounded like the gothic romance that it was. "His next book—"

" _Route 666_ ," Ducky supplied.

Slightly-better-written hack horror. Not _bad_ but…

"When did Herman disappear?" Cilly asked. At least this was distracting her a bit.

Ducky checked his cell phone. "Saturday, October 9, 2010."

"So he would have written _Stormshire_ in 2010 to publish in 2011—most likely," Cilly said slowly. "If Herman was concentrating on _his_ book, not giving Paul's book the customary attention… If Paul had grown dependent on Herman and wasn't even checking the final polish…"

" _Writers Block,_ " I gasped.

"That's not on his list," Ducky said.

"No—but it's on Janet's. A writer is teaching a class in creative writing, taking student ideas and tweaking them calling them her own. Finds a student, a real gem in the rough, invites the student to stay with her, steals all her ideas—"

"—then gets nailed for plagiarism because the _student_ stole from someone else," Jenny finished.

Anne folded her arms and gave us all a slow, measured look from one person to another. "If you're saying Paul killed Herman—and it sounds like you are," she said, "I have two objections. One: Paul admitted—frequently, _loudly_ —that Herman was his lifeblood for research. Herman started off as his number one fan when Paul was mostly just doing short stories for magazines. Two: Paul totally lost it when Herman disappeared. You heard how he fell apart this weekend? Mrs. Elgar was hosting a party for—shoot, I can't remember. Some supernatural romance writer. Paul was there—he had started showing up to fewer and fewer parties; he wasn't a client any more but they still invited him, so he and Barbara were there. Herman got the mail that afternoon, read the letter from the publisher asking for rewrites. He called Paul, Paul was trying to calm him down. No such luck. He finally left with Barbara, but by the time they got home, Herman was gone. They thought he had just gone for a drive to cool off. He hadn't taken anything with him, not even a coat. They called the police the next morning when they saw he hadn't come home. Because of his mental state, they put out an alert—"

"—but clearly missed the vehicle in the ravine," Ducky finished. "I can see the logic that excludes Paul Bedicker from the list of suspects. He said he looked on Herman as a younger brother. But the questions still hold: who killed Herman Prendergast? And why? Who killed Louise Weiss? Why? Patrice? Moira? Why and why?" He looked around the group. "I'm sure Cassandra and I aren't the _only_ fans of mystery novels!"

Kick down those floodgates, why don't'cha?

We all looked on it as though we were plotting a book (or, for Anne, another murder mystery for the banquet). Jenny was using any down time at the convention to work on her own novel (a desperate romance or a murder mystery with her father as the victim were my bets), and readily gave up her supply of 3x5 cards.

"If I may suggest—" Ducky raised his voice above the babble. "Put the name of the person your comment regards at the top of the card. We can do a stack for each of the victims and a stack for any other people. Any idea, no matter how absurd…"

Looking through the cards over the next hour, he should have kept that last bit to himself. Many of the ideas deviated from possible crime clues into possible novel ideas. We had zombies, alien kidnapping and secret political cabals, just for a start.

But there were ideas, good ideas. _Herman was a researcher. He stumbled over something secret and Person X killed him. They heard Paul was going to be here and came to the con to see what he knows because Herman's body just turned up. He or she killed Lu and Patrice because he or she misheard like Sandy did._ (Person X is…no idea.)

 _Lu and Patrice were killed by Moira. Moira was killed by Janet and Marguerite for revenge._ (Hm.)

 _Moira just needed killing. They've got that law in Texas._ (Really?)

 _Herman was having an affair with Paul's wife, Paul killed him._ (She wasn't always a 60ish-but-looking-older old-fashioned librarian out of central casting…)

 _Patrice and Lulu heard someone plot to kill Moira, Patrice tried to blackmail the killer, the killer killed Patrice and killed Lulu just in case, then killed Moira._

I was starting to question the spelling of kill and any variation: killer, killed, killing, kills—you see a word too much and the spelling just looks _wrong._

"Any chance you've solved it, Ducky?" Cilly asked with a desperate smile. We were heading back to the main floor to close up the last of the function rooms.

"Too early to tell," he said with a 'maybe yes, maybe no' shrug.

Cilly has met Ducky a couple of dozen times over the years. I, on the other hand, have been married to him over six years. My ears went on yellow alert. Cilly sighed. "One can hope."

"Will the tea still be held tomorrow?" he asked nonchalantly.

Red alert. My ears started swiveling.

"Nobody has asked for a refund. Or the banquet. Amazing."

I waited until Cilly had headed toward registration before grabbing Ducky's arm. "Okay. Give."

He held up a finger. "Just an idea…" He pulled out his cell phone. "Jethro. I'd like to invite you and the team to tea. No, not with Mother. Tomorrow, here at the convention. It hasn't been cancelled, all of the major players and suspects will be gathered in the same room—Jethro?" He held the phone out; yes, the screen was still active. "Jethro?"

After a long silence: "Are. You. _Kidding_. Me?" Gibbs growled.

"No, I—"

"Suspects? At _tea?!_ I refuse to stick on a prissy moustache and speak in a French accent!" poured from the speaker.

"Belgian," Ducky offered.

There was an inarticulate noise I was sure didn't translate to 'hot diggity, I can't wait.' I finally heard, "BELGIAN!" snapped at a volume that might have fried a circuit or two.

I smiled as I made a mental note. _I am_ _ **so**_ _buying him_ _ **Murder By Death**_ _for Christmas._


	11. I Made a Mistake Once Turns Out I Was

**Chapter Eleven**

I Made a Mistake Once. Turns Out I Was Wrong.

* * *

 _~ ~ ~ ~ ~ LibriCon 2014 ~ ~ ~ ~ ~_

 **Daily Progress Report: Sunday Additions**

 _The afternoon tea will be an impromptu memorial for  
_ _Louise Weiss, Patrice Ingram-Ashcroft and Moira Devereaux  
_ _Funny stories and pleasant recollections appreciated_

* * *

 **Sunday**

"And you, Count Downe—witnesses put you at the fox hunt—sorry, Boss."

I couldn't blame DiNozzo. There was a definite feeling of being in an old Agatha Christie cozy. Or a weird Noel Coward comedy.

They had a repeat of the day before for the refreshments—with one alteration: _nothing_ was 'serve yourself.' They were pretty sure the Ipecac was introduced into a liquid, but they hadn't been able to narrow it down to _what_ —so servers tipped pitchers of punch and lemonade, poured tea and, just to be safe, served everything from sandwiches to cake instead of letting people graze at will. (No, not another cancelled wedding. Mrs. Islington, advised of the 'gathering of the suspects' aspect of the tea, had the pastry department whip out a cake almost as nifty as the one the day before. When I raised my eyebrows, she gave me a composed look and said, "It's all theatre, isn't it?")

The room was wall-to-wall scuttlebutt and flat-out gossip. There were a few theories about the deaths, but most of the chatter was dishing dirt on the dead. Not hard with Patrice and Moira; the talk about Lulu tended to be nice, at least. When Gibbs and crew entered the room, talk came to a standstill—then suddenly started up again, louder, faster, with more brittle laughter. Even the innocent were nervous… and who could blame them?

The main cast in this black comedy was all there: all the authors, all the comcom (Kyle wasn't scheduled to run the film room until that night, but willingly gave up his sleep time to join us). I ran into people I hadn't seen since our pre-con meeting on Thursday: Marc Lexton, the charity auction coordinator (who had announced the three auctions had taken in a total of over $75,000 to be donated to a national literacy program—thanks largely in part to the auction items of Tempe Brennan and Stephen King), Zoe Lasko (outdoing anybody she had given a ribbon or trophy—the girl was in a recreation of a beaded dress from the 1980 version of _Flash_ _Gordon;_ it had to weigh 70 pounds), Norma Edwards (who confided that half of the dealers had already asked to pre-register for tables for next year)—even quiet Robbie Andres, who had coordinated the tickets for all the events and was one of the few people who got to enjoy the con and not run around like a lunatic.

Breena and Jordan were at a small table with Dixie Lee and Janet—the four of them had definitely hit it off. As I walked past, they were animatedly discussing the case that caused Jordan to meet Ducky, someone killed by an injection of mercury into the brain. And nobody's appetite seemed dimmed one whit. At the next table Caroline Austin was seated with Lana King and Meg Riley; the three of them were trading baby and kid pictures and the stories that went with them. So nice. So ordinary.

Marguerite was sitting with her vaguely-cousin Todd; both looked to be having a good time, and she gave me a happy smile when I walked by. Hey—maybe keeping an eye on him kept her so busy her own problem didn't assert itself. Works for me.

I wandered the room and got the chance to smile and say 'hi' to authors I'd barely seen beyond making sure they were at their appointed autograph sessions—JoEllen Bransford, Melissa Kino, Anne Roc, Frank E. Campbell, Tristan Isolde (so grateful to discover it's a pseudonym—and he's not in Hawke's, either), a dozen others. And I made damn sure to grab some food and find a quiet table with my husband before the games commenced. I was going to need fortification.

Cilly stood in the center of the room, gently tapping a knife against a champagne flute. (We sure as heck weren't serving alcohol; moments before it had held a brilliant blue gerbera daisy and sprigs of baby's breath.) No one paid attention. I could see Gibbs was a split second away from a sharp whistle when Jonathing took care of the situation calling, "Silence! Silence! Pray silence for the Chair!" Sound dropped to almost nil.

"If everyone could please be seated…" Cilly suggested. ("Harder for a suspect to bolt," Gibbs had pointed out when we planned the afternoon's 'entertainment.') Chairs at all the tables, chairs scattered about the room… eventually everyone but the hotel staff, NCIS agents and Cilly was seated. "I'm sure everyone is aware of the tragedies that have occurred this weekend. Not everyone has fond memories of all of the victims—" Marguerite's gaze dropped for a moment then focused back on Cilly. "—but they _are_ all victims. No matter what someone may or may not have done in his or her life, no one has the right to simply snuff out that life. Please… take a moment to pray, to reflect, to send kind thoughts…" Faces became composed, many heads bowed. "Louise Weiss…" I could see Kyle close his eyes and swallow hard. He had been stupid, he had been an ass—but he genuinely loved her and was broken by her death. The subtlety of the moment almost undid Janet; her eyes were screwed shut and with the hand that wasn't holding Mimsy she roughly scrubbed the back of her wrist against the tears that were leaking out. "Patrice Ingram-Ashcroft…" Plenty of sidelong glances at Marguerite, who had her hands folded, eyes closed and head bowed and was silently mouthing what I assumed was a prayer. "Moira Devereaux…"

After a minute of silence: "Herman Prendergast," Gibbs' voice rang out.

Gasps and murmurings ran through the room.

"Agent Gibbs, you aren't saying—" Cilly looked puzzled. I'd buy her act 100% even though I knew they had plotted out everything.

"Yes. Herman Prendergast was also murdered."

Paul's fork clattered to his plate. "No!" he cried. "No, no—Barbie—!" He turned and grabbed his wife's arm. Her knitting fell from her lap to the floor.

"Paul. Calm down." She placed a firm hand over the one that was clutching her arm. "You know you shouldn't get excited."

"You can't blame him for being upset," DiNozzo called out. "He knew Herman since—what, the seventies?"

"Herman was in high school," I contributed.

"We went to his graduation." Paul switched from dismay to delight. "Remember, Barbie, we got him a ticket to Worldcon. It was in Phoenix. He was so excited!"

She smiled and patted his hand. "It was a _wonderful_ gift, Paul."

"You said he was like a brother to you," Ducky said. "He was almost a son—you were seventeen, eighteen years apart?"

"He—he was the kid brother I never had…" (Like Cain and Abel?) Paul folded his arms and curled into himself. "I miss him so much…"

Barbara shot Gibbs an irritated look; _thanks for upsetting my unstable husband_.

"So—did the same person kill all four people?" someone called out.

"Possibly," Gibbs said.

"Let's look at this individually." Gibbs is not a big talker (I've heard him described as a functional mute); he had handed off the Hercule Poirot role to DiNozzo. "Louise Weiss. Why would someone kill her? What reason would anyone have?"

"None!" Janet said sharply.

"She was your assistant. What would _you_ say about her?"

"She was sweet. Not brilliant, but a sweet, kind girl, always ready to help someone out." (Kyle looked decidedly uncomfortable.) "She was my ex-husband's sister, his youngest sister. Everyone—" She let out a deep breath. "Everyone looked out for her. I would _never_ have hurt her. And I can't think of anyone who would have. Or any reason anyone would have had."

DiNozzo swung on Kyle. "Perhaps an ex with an axe—to grind?"

"I wanted to get back with her," he snapped. "Lu—Lu said no. But she was buying my—our—car." He locked eyes with Janet. "She… was helping me out. Janet's right. That's the kind of girl Lu is." He winced. "Was."

"If you can't have her, nobody will?" DiNozzo suggested.

Kyle looked disgusted. "Even if—why would I kill Pat or Moira or—" He looked puzzled. "Uh, Herman?"

DiNozzo tipped his head; good point. "If not her boss or boyfriend— _ex_ -boyfriend—then who?"

"If we don't know _why_ —how can we know _who_?" Dixie Lee asked. She had one leg tucked under the other and Mimsy was curled up in the resulting nest. Janet was taking advantage of the temporary defection to eat in peace.

"Good question. _Why_ would anyone kill Louise? Everyone says she was sweet, kind to small animals, donated to charities—" DiNozzo held a hand out to the attendees, turning in a small circle as he spoke; a few nods followed his gesture. "Fair enough. Perhaps— _perhaps_ —she was killed in error."

"Wait, you don't think someone mistook Lu for Patrice or Moira?" Jonathing asked. DiNozzo shrugged expressively. "Okay, maybe someone half-blind might confuse Lu and Moira. They're both kind of blonde—but they were at least twenty years apart just for a start. Pat was a half a foot or more taller than either of them and she had jet black hair."

"Out of a bottle." The anonymous mutter carried through the room. There were a few titters.

"Ah, but what if the killer didn't know _who_ they were killing? Maybe operating under instructions from someone else to 'kill the assistant.'" DiNozzo suggested.

Adrian Collier actually laughed. "Sorry, but that's gotta be the _dumbest_ of dumbass killers. What's he going to do, kill twenty people before he nails the right one?"

"Maybe it only took two. Patrice—well, as Ms. Ting said, not everyone has fond memories of the victims. For a start, she was downright vile to her employer."

Marguerite turned pale, but her gaze on DiNozzo didn't waver. I doubt anyone would have pegged her as more than mildly upset. I had promised her that her secret was safe—and it was.

"But just like Lulu—if it were her employer, why kill her here, in such a public way? Either one of them? Easier to do it in the comfort of your own home area, disguised as a suicide, an accident… 'Death by person or persons unknown…'"

I shot a glance at Ducky, but he was an attentive listener of DiNozzo's.

Janet snapped her fingers. " _ABC Murders_. It's a classic. Want to hide a book? Put it on a shelf with a dozen other books. Want to hide a murder? Stick it in the middle of other deaths. Maybe Moira—or Patrice—was the victim and the other two were…" She looked uncomfortable. "…window dressing…?"

"It's an old plot," Caroline Austin said hesitantly. Her grandmother had used a variant at least three times and managed to make it fresh each time.

"So is _Romeo and Juliet_. They still perform it along with _West Side Story_ all over the place," Meg Riley pointed out. Given that she has maybe three plots she recycles, she's almost an expert on the topic.

"But how would that relate to Harry?" Caroline asked. When her tablemates looked confused, she scrunched her nose. "Harry?" Lana King leaned over. "Oh, sorry. Herman. I mean, if you're trying to hide one murder among others, a three or four year gap makes it hard to pull that off. Maybe Louise, Patrice and Moira are a separate issue?"

DiNozzo shrugged eloquently and went back to his character assassination. "Patrice. A number of people suggested she would have made a most excellent victim for tonight's murder mystery." Plenty of guilty starts around the room—including me. "She had, how does one put it delicately—" He tapped his lips, hamming it up. "Pah. She was the town tramp, the village vixen, weekend whore, convention coquette. If we made a list of her ten minute conquests, it would be the size of the metro phone book." Kyle's blush was in the company of at least twenty-five others—men _and_ women. Hm.

"Or perhaps one of the other victims was also a killer. Patrice attended dozens, _hundreds_ of conventions, knew a lot of dirt about a lot of people—maybe she was feeding it to someone who could make a buck on it and pay her off for the intel. Jimmy Choos don't come cheap." Trust DiNozzo to have noted what Pat had on her feet. He's a clotheshorse. "Price went up, loyalty went down. Or… She was a demanding sort of tart, quite a reputation for convention chairs despising her." He gave Cilly a piercing look.

She held up her hands. "I didn't have to deal with her."

"That's right! Actually it would have been—" He swung a _j'accuse_ pointing finger toward me.

"Got another phone book?" I snorted.

"I'm sure the hotel staff detested her just as much—"

Scott Chambers (who really _had_ been there all weekend, as promised—just lurking in the background) was poised by the door with Mrs. Islington and Mr. Rubio. They had been in on the plotting as well. He shook his head skeptically. "Not worth blowing my retirement."

"But if your idea of Moira killing Patrice is right—who killed Moira?" I hoped my timing wasn't off.

DiNozzo snapped his fingers and pointed toward me. "Good question."

"Who _wouldn't_ want her killed?" Zoe Lasko asked. "If she hadn't screwed you over personally, you're probably only three or four degrees of separation from someone she _did_."

"And apparently… she was actually on to something big, for once. From the notes she left behind…" He gave a meaningful look around the room, milking the uneasy silence. "She was investigating an author for…" He leaned forward and almost hissed the word. "… _plagiarism._ "

It was like saying 'car accident' in a room full of personal injury attorneys. Immediate buzz of discussion (nobody seemed to notice Penny staring at her plate and mechanically shoveling down cake and trifle—or that her cheeks matched the red sweater of the woman sitting next to her). Accusation of plagiarism at a book convention? Hot topic.

Gibbs had been quietly lurking by Paul and Barbara's table since Paul's outcry over Herman being a victim. Paul grabbed Barbara's arm again (how the woman keeps count of her stitches is amazing). "It's a lie!" he said imploringly. "Herman wrote that book on his own! And it was _good_!"

"I know, dear." She smiled and stroked his hand. "You were very proud of him. We both were."

"Moira Devereaux wasn't accusing a dead writer—a dead, unpublished writer. She was investigating someone in the room. For that, she died. But Louise? And Patrice?" Gibbs stared levelly at Paul.

"I—I didn't mean to!"

"Paul!" Barbara turned on Gibbs, half furious, half imploring. " _He doesn't understand,_ " she almost snapped.

"How did it happen?" Gibbs ignored her.

"She—she told those girls. But it was a lie, a lie! But nobody would have believed the truth!"

"How did you kill Louise?"

"She stayed behind after Thom left. I hit her. There was a bookend, I hit her, I hit her hard—"

"Patrice?"

"I poisoned her, it was at the tea, it made everyone sick—"

"Pat died before—" someone near me whispered. Someone else shushed them.

"Moira?"

"I—I shot her! I shot her. Twice, I remember!"

"Where did you get the gun?"

Paul gaped for a moment. "It—it was hers."

After a long moment, Gibbs shook his head. "No." He sighed, a tired, sad noise. "No, Mr. Bedicker. You didn't kill Louise. Or Patrice. Or Moira. But you know who did." He turned his unwavering look on Barbara Bedicker.

She met his gaze. "You already tested my knitting needles. All of them, even the ones in the room."

"True."

"And they were all clean, every last one of them."

"True. But—why did you volunteer for them to be tested? Your husband didn't know any of the victims had been stabbed. How did you?"

She shrugged. "I heard it through the grapevine. Someone mentioned it in passing. I knew you'd want to test anything that was a likely weapon…" She shrugged again. "Other people came forward with hair sticks—" Dixie Lee started to reach for her pinned bun and let her hand drop back to her lap. "Writing pens, chopsticks, Swiss Army knife—someone even mentioned a back scratcher…"

Gibbs shook his head slowly. "Other than the people who found the body and law enforcement agents—nobody knew the cause of death. Try again."

"Well, _I_ certainly didn't know—as I said, I heard it mentioned around the convention, I thought I would come forward rather than wait…"

"Who. Told you. Simple question."

She thought for a moment then shook her head. "I honestly don't remember."

Ziva looked at her notebook. "Dixie Lee Huntington came forward with her hair sticks. She heard it from Mary Lansing. Mary Lansing remembered hearing it from Trevor Knight. Trevor Knight heard it… from you." She turned a page. "Jake Fisch brought us his stainless steel chopsticks. He heard it from Oliver Workman who heard it from Jo Ann Loring—who heard it from…" She looked up and tipped her head. "You." She waggled her notebook. "Every single person was able to, eventually, remember where they had heard this rumor. Except for you. And all of the other paths eventually led—to you."

Barbara managed a small smile. "This is the first year we've been to the convention. I don't know anyone, really."

She had a good point.

"I don't remember who told me that Patrice and Louise were stabbed. It was a woman—I remember _that_. But there were three or four of us. We were talking about knitting." She gave Gibbs a stare as steady as his own.

"Interesting…"

"What's that, Agent Gibbs?" Mr. Rubio asked.

"Three people were killed. Two _were_ stabbed." He stared at Barbara Bedicker. "Interesting… that you knew which two of the three were stabbed."

'You could have heard a pin drop' isn't just a saying. The silence was so complete, the sound of melting ice shifting in a pitcher made a couple of people jump.

She didn't even turn a hair. "I heard it when we were discussing all the sharp objects being tested."

He shook his head slowly. "Nooooo… nope. That doesn't fly. Other than NCIS, hotel staff—" He nodded towards the door. "—and two members of the concom—" (He must have practiced all morning to be able to say that word.) "—people knew that there had been deaths. But not the cause." Silence. Long, _long_ silence. "You were read your Miranda rights when you brought us those knitting needles. Those rights are still in force."

"I made a mistake!" Paul cried. "I forgot! I—I get confused sometimes!"

"Paul, _hush_. It's not good for you to get excited—"

"They _knew_. They _knew_ , they were going to _tell_!" He started to sob. "I—I didn't mean to hurt him, I grabbed his arm, he pulled away, he _fell_ , oh, Herman, I'm so sorry…!"

Barbara dropped her face and stared at the floor… then let out a long sigh that made her whole body sag. "It _was_ an accident." She dragged her gaze back up. "Herman—was more than a researcher. At the beginning, yes. He helped with research, ran errands… But he would make suggestions, tweaking things here and there. I don't think he realized how much he contributed—he was very shy about his accomplishments. But Paul knew. Paul understood. He made sure Herman got paid a portion of the book's earnings—by the end, half of what he made. Which is why we were so surprised to discover he had written a book on his own, sent it out in secret." She gave a half-smile. "He—got an offer from Random House."

Damn. Good start for a newbie writer.

"They wanted revisions, just a few. Herman was so thrilled. Paul—" She looked uncomfortable and flicked a glance at her husband. "—misunderstood," she said cautiously.

"Misunderstood?" Gibbs prompted.

"He—thought Herman had stolen his idea. His manuscript. They argued. Well, that is… Paul argued. Herman was—quite stunned. He had suspected Paul, er, wasn't well at times. This was the worst he had been. I don't know who did what, but Herman fell down the stairs. You didn't need to be a doctor to see his neck had snapped. He was dead."

"Most he would have faced is accidental death. Why hide the body?" Gibbs asked.

"Circumstantial evidence could have made the charge manslaughter or even murder. _You_ know that. We couldn't risk it. Yes, we made the wrong choice. We drove him to Geller Ridge, pushed the car into the ravine… and drove back home. There was a snowstorm that night, that area was hit hard—it covered everything. We were going to call the police the next morning, just report him as missing—"

"Instead you staged a little drama at a party the next night," Ziva said.

Barbara managed to look only a little guilty. "It… lent credibility. It was easy enough to leave Paul at the party, drive home, call Paul on his cell phone—in case they checked the phone records—then drive back. Dianna and Rod Elgar were having a last party before locking up for winter. They're only five minutes away." She got a funny look for a second. "Nobody noticed that I was gone."

"Good story. Plausible, even." DiNozzo folded his arms. "But what about Louise Weiss? Patrice Ingram-Ashcroft? Moira Devereaux? Those were _not_ accidents."

She looked at him blandly—but said nothing. She was probably hoping NCIS would forget about them. Fat chance.

"Amazing, the bits of evidence that get left behind." Gibbs pulled a plastic bag from his jacket pocket. "For example—this was found under the body of Moira Devereaux. One of our agents remembered seeing this button on _your_ jacket Friday night."

"How trite," she said.

"Trite. But true." (I managed not to groan.) Gibbs nodded to Mr. Rubio, who flipped a switch by the door. The lights dimmed and a projection screen at the back of the room slowly slid down. Mr. Rubio clicked a remote; pictures from the first day of the convention slid by, shots from the Cheese and Whine party—ending with a picture of Paul and Barbara talking with one of the attendees.

Gibbs walked to the screen and held the bag next to the image of Barbara Bedicker. "Perfect match." As the lights came back up and he walked back, he added, "Agent said it reminded him of someone. Dolores Umbridge?"

McGee. Had to be McGee.

Barbara must not have read the Harry Potter books or seen the movies, because she didn't look miffed. ( _I_ would have been.) But, yeah, her twin sets have a definite Dolores vibe.

Paul was looking at her imploringly. "You said they won't tell. They won't tell, will they?"

She managed a smile. "No, Paul. They won't tell." She stood up and held her hands out to him. "Agent Gibbs is—going to give us a tour of NCIS. Doesn't that sound interesting?"

He looked at his plate, then up at Gibbs, brows furrowed. "Can I finish my lunch first?"

Gibbs patted his shoulder. "Sure."

* * *

Cilly and I sat with Paul while he continued to plow his way through the buffet, keeping him distracted—and listening in to NCIS 'chat' with Barbara.

She had given up any pretense of innocence and had thrown her Miranda rights under the bus. She admitted she had overheard Moira talking to her publisher during dinner, saying she had stumbled onto a big plagiarism scandal and, quote, 'other crimes.' "It wasn't plagiarism. Herman didn't get author credit, true, but he was well paid for his contribution. She seemed surprised when I went to her room—"

"She wasn't investigating your husband. She was investigating someone else." Gibbs stared at her.

She looked taken aback. "Oh."

How he kept from saying, 'Yeah, 'oh.' You killed someone for no good reason and all you can say is 'oh?'' is beyond me. But, then, I managed to not look at Penny while this bit played out, so—thumbs up to both of us.

"What about Patrice? And Louise?" DiNozzo prompted.

She looked… irritated. "How those twittery girls found out is beyond me. But Paul wanted to look at the room before the party was set up; when we walked by I heard one of them saying 'they killed Herman.' Paul was—distraught. By the time I got him up to our room, he was almost hysterical. I couldn't—he's, he's so… fragile now…" She looked away.

"So you waited until the room was empty after Thom Gemcity's autograph session…" DiNozzo prompted. (Tim was happily hidden in a corner, trying to keep the shreds of his alternate identity together.)

She nodded. "The hallway door was unlocked. I thought I might find a knife in the kitchen—I grabbed the first thing I saw, it was in a stack of dirty utensils, I was sure someone would see me. I didn't think she would be found so quickly, I had to think of something else to use the, ah, second time. I knew she was coming back to the hot tub; I'd have to change into my bathing suit anyway so I… left Paul in our room and went to… talk… to Ms. Devereaux."

Talk? Webster's definition is a little different than hers.

"You were wrong." She looked up sharply at Gibbs' words. "Again."

"Wrong? Wrong? How?"

"They weren't talking about you. Or your husband. Or Herman Prendergast. They were talking about—" Gibbs looked at Ducky.

"Faye Kellerman," he said, enunciating as only he can. Our theory was right—dammit.

Three people. She had killed three people—all in error. Staring blankly, she slowly sat down and finally managed a faint, "Oh."

"The tea?" Ducky asked. She stared at him. "You put Ipecac in something at the tea? Why?"

She looked almost startled. "Oh… yes… I put it in my cup… I overfilled it with punch, so I could pour the whole cup back into the bowl…"

My jaw dropped. Son of a bitch! She had done it right in front of me!

"But _why_?"

She looked at him as though he weren't very bright. "To create confusion."

She succeeded.

I jumped slightly at the pat on my arm. "Could I have some more cake? Please?"

He reminded me so much of Mother… Barbara had been trying to protect him—now, no family, no children, no close friends—he was going to be all alone. I managed a smile. "I'll see what I can find."

Not all of her victims were dead…


	12. Amos, you've been reading too many

**Chapter Twelve**

"Amos, you've been reading too many of Jessica's books."  
"Well, that's how much you know, Ethan. I haven't read any of them."  
 **(Murder, She Wrote)**

* * *

 _~ ~ ~ ~ ~ LibriCon 2014 ~ ~ ~ ~ ~_

 _ **Concom Closing Comments**_

 _The Concom will be holding a post-con meeting (TBA). If you didn't leave comments at registration, please feel free to let us know **HERE** what we did well, what could be improved, etc._

 _ **COMMENT 7 of 42** _  
_The dead bodies were kind of a bummer._

* * *

 **Sunday**

The banquet was almost anticlimactic.

The food, of course, was superb. Ducky and I ended up on different teams for the murder mystery; we both lost. Marguerite and Janet ended up on the same team; they won, and said it was all due to the photographic memory of Jenny Keppler—she remembered every nuance of every book she had read, and came up with weird twists even Anne hadn't thought of. Anne planned to steal her to help on next year's murder mystery, and Marguerite was hiring her as a companion to keep her parents at bay. Things were looking up for Jenny, that's for sure.

And, yes, there would be another convention. Metropolis Insurance had assured Cilly that the convention was in no way liable for the criminal acts of an attendee and this did not impact her 30-plus year history with the company. Which was a good thing, because someone had left a sheet of poster board at the empty registration table. Headed _**WE WANT PRE-REG FOR LIBRI 2015!**_ it had at least _three_ _hundred_ names and email addresses on it before Jonathing discovered it and spirited it away.

The consuite was closed to general public. The concom and a very select few of the guests were upstairs getting happily plastered. Jenny was the only non-guest attendee in the room; Cilly had agreed, hearing she was definitely going on the payroll as Marguerite's assistant. Nobody knew about Marguerite's 'problem'—Janet had heard a whisper about her kleptomania (in passing, from Lu, when one of Patrice's oblique references wasn't quite so oblique), and she wasn't saying a word. With Patrice no longer around, Janet and Marguerite discovered they could actually be friends—and Janet cheerfully volunteered to go with Jenny and keep her father in line while she packed. I got the idea she was hoping he didn't stay in line; she was spoiling for a fight. Jenny looked like she had won the lottery. I think she was pinching herself to make sure it wasn't a dream.

"Feet off the furniture," Ducky mumbled.

"Not my furniture," I said. But to appease him, I grabbed a throw pillow from the couch, put it on the coffee table and set my feet back. He rolled his eyes.

2130\. On cue, my cell phone rang. "Hi, Mommy!

"Hi, trouble!"

"I'm not troubow!"

"Yes, you are, but I love trouble." I rolled _my_ eyes. Well, some kinds of trouble.

"Did you have fun? Was Mimsy there?"

"Yep. Mimsy is here, even. We're up in the consuite. Yeah, it was fun," I half-lied. I ignored Cilly's snort.

"I wish I had gone," she said wistfully.

"Honey, it's not like I-Con. You would have been bored stiff." I winced. Actually, my kid would have probably jumped right in. She's gone to NCIS any number of times, including Take Your Child to Work. She probably would have volunteered to help interrogate.

"Okay," she said reluctantly. "I just wanna say good night."

"Night-night, sweetie."

"Auntie Ev wants to tawk to you, I'm gonna caw Daddy on the other phone." With that, I heard the scramble of the receiver being handed over.

"We caught the news. You guys had food poisoning? How bad?"

"Ah…" With the arrest of Barbara Bedicker, the correct information would be all over the news by tomorrow. "Not exactly. Someone put Ipecac in the punch at one of the teas."

"What an asshole. Other than that, you had fun?" Good sales?"

"Spectacular sales. We had three murders," I said flippantly. Ducky's cell rang; undoubtedly Lexi on second round of good nights.

"Dang! Lily, we should have gone to the con! They did _three_ murder mysteries this year!"

Over Lily's, "Aw, shoot!" I tried to correct Ev. "No, these were murders. Three murders."

"Yeah, at the Sunday banquet. Anne should go pro, I don't know how she does it every year—"

"No, Evvie, there were _three murders_."

"I know, I don't know how she kept three of them straight—"

I pulled the phone away from my ear and looked at everyone in the room helplessly. Cilly shrugged. "Ev… you're going to see it on the news. Moira Devereaux was murdered."

"Oh, my god!"

Good. I finally got through to her.

"That's bloody brilliant! Was she pissed when she found out?"

I almost groaned. "Ev, this wasn't for the banquet murder mystery. This is… for real. Moira was killed. Louise, Janet's assistant? She was killed. Patrice Ingram-Ashcroft? She was killed."

"Poor Lu, she must have been the innocent bystander."

"And how."

"But Pat and Moira must have been fit to be tied—"

This was beginning to feel like a repeat of Faye Kellerman/fake Hillerman. "Ev!" I said sharply. "When I say Charles Manson, what do you think?"

"Nutjob," she said promptly.

"What was he convicted of?"

"Mur—oh, shit. You don't mean—"

"Yep."

"This parrot is deceased. It is an ex parrot. It has ceased to exist."

"Yep."

"All three?"

"Yep."

"Why?"

"Watch the news tomorrow."

"Lily—they weren't for the murder mystery. They were for real! For real?" she asked back to me.

"For real," I confirmed.

"Holy shit."

"Hey, watch your mouth around my kid. I try to, you should, too."

"She's in the kitchen. Holy shit! Who did it?"

It would be on the news… "Barbara Bedicker has been arrested and charged." I could hear the blank stare over the phone. "Her husband is Paul Bedicker. P.R. Bedicker." I rattled off a list of his books.

"Oh my god, I blanked on the name. I love his stuff. He was there? I wish I had gone…"

"Trust me," I said grimly. "You don't."

We parted company and I promised to give her all the details the next day. Well, all that I could. Ducky had blown kisses to Lexi on the phone and had put his cell back in his pocket.

Janet had a faraway look and was stroking Mimsy almost absentmindedly. "Dare I ask what you're thinking?" I asked cautiously.

"How many people will put this weekend in a book…" she said.

" _Murder_ _at_ _the_ _ABA_ ," I said.

" _Murder_ _at_ _the_ _War_ ," Cilly suggested. "Okay, it wasn't a con, but…"

" _Bimboes_ _of_ _the_ _Death_ _Sun_. _Zombies_ _of_ _the_ _Gene_ _Pool_." Ducky had read both of them during the first convention I took him to. He was still disappointed that Sharyn McCrumb hadn't put out another in the series; I told him to get in line.

" _Sci_ _Fi_ ," Jonathing added.

"Which one?" Janet asked, puzzled.

"That was the title. _Sci_ _Fi_. By William Marshall. Takes place at a con in Asia."

"The _Renaissance_ _Faire_ mystery series," Jenny suggested timidly.

"Probably half a dozen from this weekend," I said with a tired sigh.

"Even worse…"

Cilly and I both gave Ducky a hesitant look. "Yeah? What?" I asked.

"How many people will think Louise, Patrice and Moira were part of the entertainment—and expect to see them next year?"

I shuddered even as Jonathing said, "Performance art to the max."

Janet's faraway look was growing more thoughtful. "I've… got an idea…"

I covered my ears. Count me _out_!


End file.
